


We Shall Be Dangerous

by tiger_moran



Series: Precursor [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Character, Communication Issues, Consent, Conversations, Criminal husbands, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Don’t copy to another site, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Oriented Aroace, Post-Coital Cuddling, Queerplatonic love, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Trust, Unrequited Love, aroace character, references to murder, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 76,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Colonel Sebastian Moran, not long cast out of the army, doesn't do commitment, doesn't get too attached, doesn't truly fall in love. Yet shortly after entering into the employment of Professor James Moriarty he will come to question every one of these ideas. But Professor Moriarty seems oblivious to Moran's regard for him, perhaps even opposed to it. Every time it seems there is a chance of him reciprocating instead Moran is left feeling hurt and rejected. Can the two of them ever truly communicate with each other, so that Moran can take his rightful place by Moriarty's side?





	1. I just wanna be a criminal with you

**Author's Note:**

> You and I shall laugh together with the storm,  
> And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,  
> And we shall stand in the sun with a will,  
> And we shall be dangerous. 
> 
> Kahlil Gibran - Defeat

Two weeks now, since Moran has moved in to the London house. Two weeks now since he has entered Professor Moriarty's employment. A week since he has last seen the man himself, although the last occasion was extremely fleeting. This time with Moriarty in London himself for a couple of days, he has invited Moran to join him for dinner at what he describes as one of his favourite restaurants.

“Are you settling in to your new house?” he enquires over the soup course. “I trust you at least find it preferable to your previous room.”

“Vastly preferable, thank you sir.”

Moran's last abode was damp, dim and draughty. The Conduit Street house is positively palatial by comparison, and his own bedroom is very pleasant. Not a huge room, nonetheless it is clean and bright, with space enough to fit in a bed, a narrow wardrobe, a small bookshelf and a writing desk and chair and still leave room enough to move about without immediately banging into things. No damp either, which seems to have helped a great deal in clearing up whatever was ailing him before. There is also a housekeeper who seems intent on feeding Moran up with very fine meals, although he does have some concerns about the rumours that she murdered her first husband by poisoning his dinner.

Moran doesn't mention the fact that if anything the house feels too big, too empty. Moran is now its only other permanent resident aside from the housekeeper and maid, and he dare not become overly familiar with either of them.

He eats a spoonful of the vegetable soup before speaking again.

“The house is... it's very nice, my room is comfortable, the meals are good.”

As Moran speaks Moriarty carefully swallows another mouthful of his own soup. “But?” he says.

“I wasn't going to say anything else.”

“Not aloud, but clearly there is more.” Moriarty says this in a perfectly level tone. He sounds curious, not angry at what some might perceive to be Moran's ingratitude.

Moran shrugs slightly. “It's... it's just it's a big place.”

Moriarty seems to contemplate this statement for a moment, seeking the underlying meaning behind the statement of the obvious. “You are used to having many people around you, I suppose.”

“Yes sir.” An expression of relief flickers across Moran's face at Moriarty grasping this so quickly. Moran is hardly the gregarious sort by nature but after spending most of his life in one institution or another surrounded by people, despite the fact that most of them loathed him, even Moran is starting to feel a little isolated, particularly when he sits alone after dinner. The Professor's presence is there in the house, vaguely, in the books lining the shelves of the drawing room, and in some of the ornaments but it is only distantly. Moran could perhaps invite someone round to fill the emptiness of course, but so far he has been unable to bring himself to do so. It wouldn't feel right somehow, not in a house owned by his new employer.

“Well, I shall be staying there tonight,” Moriarty says. He smiles.

“Yes sir.” Moran looks at Moriarty across the table. This private back room in the restaurant is not a large one. Intimate, one could call it. Enough to accommodate a couple of tables, neither of them particularly large. Both are laid with pristine white cloths but only one, theirs, bears a pale candle in a glass jar. They are seated at the slightly bigger of the pair but still it would take very little effort for Moran to shift his leg and brush it against the Professor's beneath the table, should he be so inclined. Some queer impulse within him insists that he try it, just to see how Moriarty reacts. He quietly tries to suppress the urge whilst he watches the flickering light and shadows caused by the candle playing over the Professor's features.

“How have you been getting on with Porter?” Moriarty asks.

Moran thinks of the rather ratty little man who turned up in the house the morning after he arrived back in London, introducing himself (with a handshake that seemed oddly... _damp_ ) as Porter. No first name was offered and Moran was not inclined to query the matter further. Porter has been showing him around various places in London, properties that the Professor owns, acquaintances that Moriarty thinks Moran should make, thus they have spent a fair amount of time in each other's company. But Porter is not a man he thinks he would ever want as a friend.

“Perfectly amicably,” he says cautiously.

Moriarty laughs at this. “How diplomatic, Colonel. No, he is not a man I would think it would be easy to become close to, but he is reliable and he has many skills that I value.”

“But not certain other skills?” Moran queries. Still he is not entirely sure why the Professor has employed him, not really. He's damned good with a rifle, he knows, and he's none too shabby at managing people either, both skills which Moriarty has hinted that he will make use of. But so far he has done nothing much more than familiarise himself with his surroundings and he is fairly itching to get to work properly.

“No, not certain other skills,” Moriarty agrees. “Porter remembers names, streets, places, figures. He is very good at dealing with the sorts of numbers that I find rather... mundane – the rents for my properties and the like. But there are certain, shall we say, _problems_ , which require a more creative mode of thinking when it comes to solving them, something for which my dear friend Porter is ill-suited.”

“What about Parker?” Moran asks. Another fellow introduced to him by Porter; a thief, from what Moran understood about him, though he dropped several hints about having murdered someone. Moran suspects most of this was mere boasting but with these associates one can never be entirely certain, he supposes.

“Parker lacks both refinement and the necessary skills,” Moriarty replies. “He favours the garrotte, a tool which may sometimes have its place but is wholly unsuited for certain other tasks. Certain problems may require a gun to solve them, and of course a gun requires a man skilled in operating it. Parker would probably only manage to shoot off his own big toe if you gave him a gun.”

Now Moran laughs and Moriarty, watching him, thinks how much younger he looks when he does so. He supposes though that the Colonel has not had a great deal to laugh about, particularly in recent times.

“So when exactly, sir, will you put me to work, ah, _problem-solving_?” Moran asks.

“Soon,” Moriarty says, still smiling.

“How soon?” Moran asks, not afraid of pressing the matter with him.

“Next week.” Moriarty holds Moran's gaze over the candle.

Moran looks back at him steadily, unblinking for a long moment. How casually they are discussing murder, _assassination_ , he thinks. He wonders if it should concern him, how little it vexes him, the notion of snuffing out a human life as if it is no more than this candle between them. But of course it will not be the first time he has done so; only the motives will be different now. Well that and that the pay is better now.

“Why?” he asks.

Moriarty finishes his soup, setting down his spoon and carefully dabbing his lips with his napkin before he answers. “Does it matter?”

“It matters very much,” Moran answers. “ _Sir_. I'll not be your cat's-paw over some trivial argument or some such nonsense.”

“The man in question... he crossed me, he was warned off, he did not heed that warning. Now he persists in trying to make life very inconvenient for me.” Moriarty's blue-grey eyes rest on Moran's still. “I am not trying to convince you of the morality of this action, Moran – I do not think morality figures anywhere in the matter for me, not truly. However, I know that this man has certain private proclivities which even I find abhorrent.”

Moran narrows his eyes at this. “What, exactly?”

“He is, shall we say, very fond of little girls,” Moriarty replies. “ _Very_ little girls.”

Moran's hand clenches around his spoon and just for a moment he remembers the rage coursing through him, in another time, another place, when confronting a human monster.

“Moran,” Moriarty says, and Moran is snapped back to the restaurant in London, back sitting opposite this strange figure dressed in black, this man with his own queer set of morals.

Looking into Moriarty's serene face, Moran is suddenly absolutely convinced that the Professor knows what he was just thinking about. Impossible, of course, but there is such a profound sense about him that he is perfectly capable of reading Moran's every thought.

“Are you all right?” Moriarty asks. He sounds kind and concerned. It might be feigned, but Moran thinks it is not. “You look pale.”

“Yes sir, I'm fine.”

“Would you like some more wine?”

“Yes, please.”

Moriarty pours more of the wine into Moran's glass. “You will be provided with the information and the tools necessary to _solve the problem_ shortly,” he says.

“Right sir.” He is grateful that the Professor does not press the matter of what he was thinking of during his brief lapse in attention.

“I expect you to be discreet, of course, and it must not be traced back to me, or to you.”

Moran takes a sip of his wine and thinks this over for a moment. “If I may ask, sir...”

“Yes?”

“Why use me for this at all?” Moran puts down his wine glass and rests his hands on the table, either side of his soup bowl. “I am not... I mean I have never done this before, exactly. I know how to shoot and I'm damned good at that, but if you want a more _discreet_ method then surely there is someone better suited?”

“Someone like Parker?” Moriarty smiles thinly. “Indeed, if I wished it to appear as a robbery gone awry, or simply as an accident. But that would not make a point to anyone else who might be inclined to cross me, now would it?”

“So you desire it to be obvious, yet also discreet?”

“Precisely.”

“How do I manage that then?”

“I'm sure you will figure it out.”

Moran looks down at his hands, still mulling this over, knowing that if he fails then he is a dead man, whether that be at the hands of the British justice system or as a result of Moriarty's retribution. “Hell of a way of testing a man,” he says, laughing. Truly there seems to be something darkly comic in this situation.

“I have faith in you,” Moriarty says.

Moran looks up, into the Professor's eyes, searching for irony or derision in this statement, finding none.

“It is a test, of course it is,” the Professor says calmly, “and not an easy one by any means. But I have full confidence not only in your skill but also your problem-solving abilities.” And he means this, because he has seen how Moran has a spark of true animation back in him already. Before there was something subdued about him, like an animal wrenched out of the wild and locked in a tiny barren cage, but now the Colonel is coming back to full life. He is a man who thrives on situations like this, who needs to be controlled and guided and given orders from above but who also needs room to work out how best to carry out those orders. The more faith he puts in Moran, the more Moran will reward him, Moriarty thinks.

Here the waiter knocks on the door before entering the room to check up on them and to clear away their soup bowls, thus sparing Moran from having to immediately think of something to say in response to Moriarty's remark.

“We need not discuss business any further over dinner, you know,” Moriarty remarks after their main course has been brought in.

“Didn't think you'd exactly be the type for makin' small talk,” Moran says.

“True, but I am not opposed to getting to know you better. Unless you fail spectacularly on your first job for me, I believe our association will be a long one, so I may as well find out more about you.”

“Thought you already knew everything about me.” Moran grins as he cuts up his roast beef.

“Not _everything_.” Moriarty smiles as he takes up his own knife and fork. “Does your lady friend not come around to visit you at the house?” he asks, well aware that Moran is the type of person not prone to abiding by the rules of what is considered proper courtship.

“No sir.”

“How close precisely are the two of you?”

Moran shrugs again. It might seem strange to him, that already they are discussing such matters. The Professor truly does not seem disposed towards making idle conversation so if he asks about the topic he must have some specific purpose for doing so. Moran is not sure though exactly what that purpose is but suspects the Professor still has concerns about whether a woman in Moran's life will distract him from his work. “Close enough, I s'pose.”

“Close enough to marry?”

Moran cannot suppress a burst of laughter. “Oh no, Kitty... does not want to marry me. She ain't the marryin' kind, I think.”

“And what about you?” Moriarty looks at Moran so intently that the Colonel finds himself flushing. “Are you the marrying kind, Moran?”

“I'm... not that kind of man,” Moran says, but wonders as he says it why it seems such a struggle to get the words out. Once he would have found it easy, he would have glibly dismissed the idea of marriage. He used to scoff at such things, back in India and Afghanistan. “What about... What about you sir?” he finally dares to ask. “You ever had... a woman in your life?”

“Let us say also that I am not that kind of man,” Moriarty replies. He seems amused by the question.

Here then is the perfect moment for Moran to ask him, _'And what about a man in your life?'_ because he is uncertain what the Professor's own proclivities are, or if he even has any at all. He is not sure whether Moriarty means only that he is not interested in women, or that he is not the kind for intimate relationships full stop. For reasons he cannot entirely understand he finds himself longing to know, eager for some indication that like himself, Moriarty is drawn to his own sex. Yet he is utterly unable to ask it. He may not be one to always follow the rules of what is considered proper and right but to ask one's new employer if he is essentially a _sodomite_ is a step too far even for Moran. He has far, _far_ too much to lose if the Professor is not that way inclined and was to take offence at the question – his new house, his job, probably even his life may be at stake, when he has already been drawn this far into the strange and murky world of Moriarty's criminal side.

“Right sir,” is all he says instead, and gets on with eating his dinner.

~

Moran is somewhat surprised when, upon stepping out of the restaurant, the Professor links arms with him. Moriarty seems a man of strange dualities though – Moran has witnessed him flinch when touched by another acquaintance, clearly only enduring the contact for propriety's sake, but it seems when he is the one in total control of the situation he is rather more tactile. Moran is not sure if it is behaviour born simply of his domineering personality or something else. Either way, he doesn't mind. Moran too is not a man fond of being touched much, ordinarily at least – he would much rather keep others at a safe distance, by and large – but with the Professor somehow it feels different, somehow  _safe_.

“That place there...” Moriarty nods towards the building at the end of the row. “That is a very decent Turkish baths, if you are ever desirous of such a thing.”

This forces Moran to confront the sudden mental image of the Professor dressed only in a towel, or perhaps even less than that, and hardly helps clear up his confusion about Moriarty's own leanings. The Colonel's own experiences of Turkish baths seemed to always involve less actual bathing and more being propositioned (or propositioned _at the very least_ ) by total strangers, but then perhaps the Professor is one of those rare men who simply goes there to get clean.

“I'll bear that in mind, sir,” he says, and tries hard to push aside any lingering thoughts about a semi-nude Professor.

~

Moran lies on his back in his bed, wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. The idea of sleeping alone is hardly an unfamiliar one to him. Going to bed alone though after spending an evening with another person is rather more novel. Moran is a man used to often getting what he wants, that's the truth of it. He wouldn't call it being exploitative or manipulative exactly, but he was always a precocious child able to easily get the housekeeper, cook or maids on his side. Then it was as much a matter of survival as anything else – illicitly given bread and honey making up for meals his father banned him from eating as punishment for some, usually only perceived, wrongdoing. Or persuading the maid to conceal him when Sir Augustus was on the warpath again likely saved him from at least a couple of further severe beatings. As an adult this ability also came to include sex. He has charmed many people into bed, plenty of whom are men who had never ordinarily dreamed about lying with another man. There is something about him, some manner of animal magnetism maybe, some sensual element in his appearance or in his demeanour that seems to be able to reel people in when he wants to, people of either sex.

But Moriarty seems immune to Moran's sensuality. Even though they have been getting along well, Moriarty seems oblivious to this aspect of Moran. It is rare that he has got along with someone so well and then still ended up in his own bed, all alone. It is not even as if things soured between him and the Professor after they arrived back at the house – far from it. Still Moriarty was in a most amiable mood right up until he cordially wished Moran goodnight and retired to his own room. He even allowed his fingers to very briefly brush against Moran's when handing Moran a glass of whisky, which has left the Colonel more confused than ever. Was the act entirely accidental or deliberately planned only to appear so? Looking at the Professor's face he could not tell either way, although that Moriarty turned away afterwards perhaps suggests the touch was mere accident.

Moran though is not sure, about anything. Even his own feelings for the Professor do not make sense to him. Maybe that is why he didn't truly try to turn on his charm with him. Moriarty is an attractive enough fellow in his own way and it is hardly a new experience to Moran for him to desire someone sexually. This feels different somehow though. To have his sexual advances turned down may make Moran feel slighted, perhaps put a dent in his pride also, but on this occasion he did not even really make any advances and yet he feels more than slighted. Above all he does feel confused, but there is also something else, something that is almost physical in its intensity, an ache in his chest at ending up lying alone. The fact that the Professor is actually not that many feet away from him but is probably contentedly sleeping in his own bed makes Moran's sense of isolation even worse, if anything, which also makes little sense to him.

He turns over onto his side. A few moments later he turns over onto his other side, then irritably thumps at the pillow. He wishes Moriarty had never mentioned those damned Turkish baths, still he can't stop thinking about the Professor in a state of undress and having such thoughts about one's employer hardly seems appropriate. Probably the man has no desires at all, probably his behaviour towards Moran is all totally innocent and were Moran to ever make advances towards him he'd only run a mile then swiftly order Moran's execution. But that thought cannot push the far more indecent ones out of Moran's head. If anything somehow the thought of the Professor having so much power over him that he could coolly order Moran's death if he chose excites the Colonel further. Moran has sexual experience of men and women that crosses several continents, customarily being the more dominant partner in any of his encounters. He fantasises though about being far more submissive to another man. If anything such fantasies have become more common since he returned to England and he has to admit, in such dreams now the man who controls him, dominates him, subjugates and fucks him, is increasingly starting to look and sound like Professor Moriarty. That could make facing Moriarty across the breakfast table come the morning extremely awkward, he thinks with a wry laugh.

Such a thought though is not sufficient to stop him finally sliding his hand down between his legs and giving free rein to his fantasies, imagining the Professor's weight on top of him, practically hearing Moriarty's soft yet exact tone of voice in his ear, imagining that it is the Professor's strong fingers wrapping around his length and stroking him.

In the nearby bedroom meanwhile, Moriarty sleeps, oblivious.

 


	2. So take your best shot

Moran's somewhat _emotional_ reaction to being informed about the inclinations of his target does not bleed over into his work. He is still a professional both in the way he locates and tracks the man and in how he completes the task. When he watches his prey through the rifle scope, when he puts his finger on the trigger even he feels very little at all in fact. Even that he is doing this for the Professor and if he fucks it up in some spectacular way then he will himself probably be the one being executed is a thought which barely registers in his mind in the moment itself.

He does think about the Professor afterwards, while he wonders, since he has successfully _solved the problem_ , if there is to be some sort of acknowledgement of this from Moriarty? Or is he supposed to continue on as if nothing has happened? The latter is probably the more sensible course of action – he does not want to draw outside attention to what he has done either for his own or the Professor's sake – but the thought of getting no appreciation for a job well done does smart a little.

It's a relief then when the message arrives (hand-written, hand-delivered), no matter how short and to the point it seems. _'Please come at once. M.'_

~

The Professor has a newspaper laid out in front of him when Moran enters his study. Even though it is upside down from Moran's viewpoint, he is able to tell from a brief glance that the story Moriarty has seemingly been perusing is that of the mysterious death of a man named Cecil Wilkes, found with a bullet through his head in a rather disreputable part of Birmingham. The gist of it, Moran knows, is that – there being no gun located nearby and no indications that Wilkes fired a gun himself - not only is it a mystery who killed Wilkes and why, it is unknown what a man like him was even doing in that area. He is sure that even as he was writing it though the article's author probably had at least one or two ideas exactly why Wilkes was there.

“Have you seen this, Colonel?” Moriarty raps the paper with his knuckles. “How tragic. What is the world coming to when a decent, hard-working, upstanding man like Mr. Cecil Wilkes cannot stroll about the streets without being suddenly and mysteriously shot?”

“It's a cryin' shame, sir, no doubt about it.” Moran takes off his hat then is unsure where exactly to put it down, so he tucks it under his arm.

“It rather makes one afraid to walk the streets alone any more.” Moriarty folds the paper up and tosses it rather carelessly aside.

“Perhaps you need someone to accompany you always then,” Moran says on impulse, and then flushes, concerned he has probably just been rather too forward.

“Oh, put your hat down there.” Moriarty nods vaguely towards his desk and Moran obediently sets his hat down upon it. “Are you offering to be my bodyguard then, Moran? The idea of protecting me so appeals to you, does it?”

“Oh no sir. I mean...” Moran looks down at the floor, possibly wishing it would swallow him up. The word _bodyguard_ reminds him too much of how he's been wondering what the Professor's body looks like beneath his clothing. “I mean I doubt you need one. I'm sure you know how to take care of yourself.” That much is true at least. Moriarty used to box, when he was younger, Moran has learned, and though he may be a little out of shape now the Colonel doesn't doubt that the Professor still has skills in this area.

Moriarty smiles. “Perhaps, but I _would_ like you to accompany me somewhere next weekend.”

Now Moran looks up at him questioningly. This sounds too much like a more personal proposition than a business one, but that would be ridiculous. They have met a few times now, have spent a couple of hours in each other's company, spent one night sleeping (or not sleeping much, in Moran's case) under the same roof, albeit in totally separate bedrooms, but they are hardly at the stage of being personally close, are they? They are not even the kind of men whose paths would normally cross – Moriarty is the academic, the scholar, the one with a head for numbers and who is likely most comfortable when he is surrounded by old texts and scientific instruments. Moran though is the hunter, the soldier, the one with a knack for organising people to get things done and a talent for killing things (sometimes people). Moriarty would likely no more want to go out on the battlefield or into the jungle to hunt any more than Moran would want to spend his days in these dusty rooms lecturing to a bunch of bored rich men's brats. If Moriarty was only a professor, nothing else besides that, they would likely have nothing in common. Even now their only common link is surely breaking the law – Moriarty wishing it to be broken, Moran breaking it for him. They cannot possibly get along as more than employer and employee, he supposes.

“I have a house out in the country,” Moriarty says. “Sometimes I meet one or two _acquaintances_ there. We have much more privacy there.”

This phrasing hardly helps divert Moran's attention away from his vague hope that the Professor is referring to something more personal than professional. “I see.”

“Since you have proved your worth to me once, I think you should come with me this time.”

“Right sir.” Moran considers this a moment. “Is this another test?”

“Not really.” Moriarty stands up and walks around his desk. “Well, perhaps just a little one.” He grins.

“Right, sir.”

“I _am_ pleased with you, you know.” Moriarty puts his hand to Moran's shoulder, clasping it briefly. “You have done very well.”

Moran dips his head, his cheeks colouring very slightly, but the Professor notices anyway, notices how awkward he becomes for a moment when praised, but how obviously glad he is of it.

“So now I would like you to meet a few more of my associates,” Moriarty says.

“Right sir,” Moran says.

~

So Moran comes to be standing here now in the large, airy drawing room of the Professor's country retreat. The place has the same barely lived in feel as the Conduit Street house although there at least seem to be a few more personal possessions here. Moran has been given a bedroom looking out over the relatively small, neatly tended garden which leads towards an enclosed field where several horses are grazing. The sight caused a pang in his chest as he thought of the horses he had to leave behind in India. Strange, when he sees horses all around him even in the heart of London, but there he supposes they become part of the city's scenery, blurring into the smoke and soot grimed background and so he does not really notice them so much there.

To get here he had to endure a train journey with Porter, who chattered away non-stop, either oblivious to or unconcerned about the fact that Moran contributed almost nothing to the conversation. Whether it was the overcast skies or his travelling companion's incessant chatter, Moran's frame of mind was hardly the best, although when the Professor himself greeted them upon their arrival his mood did immediately brighten somewhat.

“Colonel Moran, this is Jack Burke.” Moriarty nods towards the tall man with the shaved head and a scar down his cheek. “Porter you know of course.” He gives Moran the kind of look which suggests that he knows just how infuriating Porter has been during the train journey.

Heedless of this, at the mention of his name the little man, looking perhaps even more rat-like than ever (at least if rats were to ever dress in rather hideous checked suits) salutes smartly at Moran.

“And this is Tom Green.” Moriarty indicates the man who in height fits between Burke and Porter, a nondescript-looking fellow – middling height, middle aged, hair of a dusty shade of light brown, no noticeable scars or other distinguishing features. Just... ordinary.

Moran wonders what it is about the man then that makes him think Green should be watched more closely than the rest. Porter is seemingly convinced that they are best friends and Burke seems amiable enough but when Moran shakes hands with Green his gaze seems to slide away when Moran looks at him – merely a man not comfortable with eye contact, or a man with something to hide?

He stays close to the Professor throughout this meeting, remaining silent. He is not shy but he still has no real idea why he is even here, and he would prefer not to get sucked into chatting with Porter again also. Burke talks of some plan of which Moran knows nothing and cannot contribute anything to, some scheme of an acquaintance of his for which he requires the Professor's advice. Porter too seems not to be involved with the plan and he amuses himself during its discussion by wandering over to the sideboard and helping himself to a measure of whisky out of a cut glass decanter.

“Care for a drop, Colonel?” he calls, waving the decanter in Moran's direction.

“No, thank you.” Moran would prefer to keep a clear head tonight.

“Aye aye, Colonel, suit yourself.” As if to make up for Moran declining, Porter adds a little more to his own glass.

Green seems to be listening to the discussion but keeps glancing towards the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Are we keeping you from something, Mr Green?” Moriarty enquires tersely at one point.

“He's probably late to go get 'is leg over with that farm lass.” Porter laughs.

Green gives him a strained smile. “Nothing, sir,” he says to Moriarty. “There's just... something I'd like to discuss with you, in private, when we're done here.”

“I see.” The Professor turns back to continue conversing with Burke.

Behind him Moran still watches Green.

~

“Well then, Mr Green, what is this pressing matter you seem to want to discuss so urgently with me?” Moriarty enquires when Burke and Porter have left the room.

Green shoots an almost panicked glance in Moran's direction. The Colonel stands over to one side still, appearing nonchalantly disinterested. “I can't... discuss it in front of someone else.”

“Who, Moran?” Moriarty gives Moran a fleeting glance, as if to suggest he is surprised to find the Colonel is still here. “Never mind him. He's paying no attention to us.”

“But I...”

“If you have something you must discuss with me then do so.” Moriarty says this sharply, before resting a hand upon Green's shoulder lightly, benevolently. “Come now, Mr Green, what precisely is on your mind?”

Moran sees Green practically shiver at Moriarty's touch before Moriarty withdraws from him, half-turning away from Green.

“Professor, I...” Green begins.

“You wish to leave my employment, is that it?” Moriarty says. He is several paces away from the other man now as he turns back to face him.

Green's shoulders slump slightly. “Yes sir.”

“You know that you cannot do so.”

“But I...”

“Have I not been a good employer? Have I not paid you well? Treated you with courtesy and respect?”

“Yes sir, but... sometimes people move on from their jobs.”

“Not from this one.” Moriarty's voice is still soft, not loud at all, but the firmness of his tone is implacable.

No wonder Green looked so terrified, Moran thinks. There is only one way anyone who knows as much as Green does can leave the Professor's employment, unless...

A split second is all it takes, for Green's expression to flick from resigned disappointment to outright fury. A second for something in Green's hand to catch the light and gleam, and in that second Moran runs, springs catlike, lands upon the Professor, who is closer to him than Green is, and knocks him to the ground.

Afterwards it will be easier to say in what order anything else occurs – the bang, the stink, the sharp hot biting pain, the jarring impact of hitting the floor - for it is Moran who curls around the Professor, protecting him, taking most of the force of landing on the polished wooden floorboards himself – and the shouting. But at the time everything seems to happen all at once in that fraction of a second immediately after Moran has pounced.

In the aftermath, with his ears ringing, Moran cannot at first comprehend quite what is happening behind him.

“Christ, he shot the Professor! He's bleeding!” someone is shouting.

Then, beneath Moran, Moriarty says, very calmly, “It is not my blood.”

Moran tries to sit up, feels that searing pain in full force and everything goes hazy for a few moments. When he comes fully back to himself it is the Professor himself who is holding him, looking at him with something perilously close to concern in his pale eyes.

“Sit still, Moran,” he says firmly.

“Are you all right?” Moran asks.

“ _I_ am. You however have been shot.”

“Oh.” Moran accepts this information serenely. His shoulder feels as if it's burning and when he tries to lift his left arm it's a struggle to do so.

“Sit still,” Moriarty commands him again and Moran stills, closing his eyes, sensing for now that it's safe to simply acquiesce. Moriarty begins to tear something up, some strips of white cloth, and starts to bind Moran's upper arm with it. Some red blooms through the white rather rapidly, although that Moran is still alive suggests that the bullet at least missed penetrating an artery. Still it is bleeding, and then there is infection to be concerned about, or nerve damage.

There is more shouting coming from behind them. When Moran opens his eyes and glances back he sees Green being hauled past by Burke and Porter. There is blood streaming down Green's face, over his left eye and down his cheek, seemingly from a gash across his forehead.

“Please, Professor, please, I didn't mean to-”

“What?” Moriarty demands, rising to his full height and fixing an implacable stare upon Green's face.

The battered, bloodied Green cowers away from him and has to be hauled back by Burke.

“You did not mean to try to shoot me? Murder me? Betray me? Oh you did not intend to shoot Colonel Moran here in my place, I will give you that.” Moriarty rests his hand lightly on Moran's uninjured shoulder and squeezes it, very gently.

In that instant Moran thinks dimly it was worth getting shot just for that. Immediately after this thought he wonders if blood loss has made him delirious.

“Take him away!” Moriarty instructs Burke, who obediently drags the whimpering Green away, Porter trotting behind them.

“What happened to his face?” Moran asks when he and the Professor are alone.

“Porter heard the gunshot, came running in and broke a chair over Green's head before he could steel himself to try a second shot.”

“Remind me never to cross Porter then.” Moran chuckles, then regrets this as the movement jolts his wounded shoulder. “Christ,” he hisses.

“Do try not to move, Moran.” Moriarty pats Moran's uninjured arm again. “I've had the doctor sent for. He should be here soon.”

“I fuckin' hate doctors,” Moran says, suspecting that under the circumstances the Professor may forgive a little profanity. Perhaps it may even lighten the mood a little. “Get a splinter in your finger and they want to saw your whole bloody arm off.”

“I hope that my doctor is at least moderately less eager to start lopping off limbs than the army surgeons you have been acquainted with.” Moriarty smiles thinly. Moran looks very pale and this fact is somewhat concerning to him. “You didn't trust Green as soon as you met him, did you?” he says, thinking it is probably best to make conversation with Moran, to try to take his mind off both the pain and any absurd idea he has about trying to get up.

“Not really.” Moran chuckles. “Not that I trust anyone much.”

Moriarty arches an eyebrow at this. “No one at all?”

Moran meets his questioning gaze for a second. “One or two people,” he says.

The Professor hesitates, pondering this briefly. “I saw how you watched him,” he says, which is something Moran would have to admit he wasn't aware of – that while he was watching Green apparently the Professor was watching _him_.

“His behaviour just seemed... off.” Moran tries to shift position slightly, then grimaces in pain. “What'll you do with him?”

“Find out exactly why he tried what he did, firstly.”

“And secondly?”

“He will be disposed of.” There is no emotion on Moriarty's face when he says this. He speaks of having a man murdered as impassively as he might talk of throwing away a moth-eaten piece of old clothing.

Perhaps he should be disturbed by this. In truth though, Moran finds Moriarty's seeming amorality oddly... _exciting_.

 


	3. You were my favourite pain

Moran lies in the bed on his back, resting against the pillows with the bandage that is twined around his upper arm and shoulder just visible above the bed-covers. The doctor has cleaned, stitched and dressed the wound, acting with good grace and ignoring Moran's cursing as he did so.

“Make him rest,” Dr. Marchant tells Moriarty as he leaves, aware from spending even a short time in Moran's company that the Colonel is probably not the kind of man who accepts the limitations of injury easily. He knows that Moriarty is the one who it is better to give instructions to; Moran will only ignore them if told them directly. “The wound should not, I think, cause any real lasting damage but he has lost a fair amount of blood and he needs time to recover, and of course the wound needs to be kept clean and dry. He should not engage in any strenuous activity, he needs plenty of sleep, and good food too, to build his strength back up. Red meat would be good.”

After he has seen the doctor out, Moriarty returns to the bedroom. Moran's eyes are closed still, but the Professor suspects that he isn't actually asleep, although it was necessary for Dr. Marchant to drug him in order to get Moran to actually stay still long enough to tend to him. Pulling up a chair he sits by Moran's bedside, remaining silent until Moran finally gives in to curiosity and opens his eyes. His pupils are constricted and this makes his eyes too look very pale.

“Perhaps I do need you as my bodyguard after all,” Moriarty says with a wry smile. He holds his hand out before him, something small resting on his palm. “It seems strange, Colonel, that Green has worked for me for several years now, yet he could do this, but you...” He looks at Moran's pallid face for a moment before glancing away. There are many things he could say, perhaps _should_ say, but he can think of nothing. He is not used to this – he can inspire fear, loathing, loyalty or even something approaching fondness from certain people. But Moran's behaviour is something else, something he is unused to, a selflessness that seemed to go far beyond just loyalty. Green betrayed him but Moran's devotion saved him, and Moriarty cannot understand why. “You risked your life, without thought, to save mine.”

“Just repayin' a debt,” Moran says. He squints at the thing on the Professor's hand. It's a bullet, he realises finally. _The_ bullet.

“What debt?”

“You saved me first.”

“You cannot possibly have been recollecting me pulling you away from that cab when you jumped on me.”

“No, I don't suppose I was,” Moran agrees. “Don't mean it's not true though – you did save me first, and I don't mean... just from that cab.”

“What do you mean then?” Moriarty asks. Moran is still under the influence of the drug, there is no way he would say so much without it, Moriarty is sure. Is he taking advantage then of Moran's vulnerable state? Probably, but he may never get another opportunity like this. At least he hopes Moran is not going to make a habit of getting shot.

Moran's eyes have slipped closed again but they fly open when Moriarty rests a hand on the Colonel's arm. He fixes his gaze somewhat unsteadily on the Professor's face.

“I... got thrown out the army, sir – oh not exactly, of course _officially_ I retired, but that was the long and the short of it, they threw me out, they gave me no choice but to leave, when being a soldier, being in the army was the only thing I knew how to do. I thought... that were the only thing I was any good at.”

“But it wasn't.”

“No, it weren't, but I don't s'pose I'd 'ave realised that without you.” Moran smiles as his eyes slip closed again. His voice is slurred when he speaks.

“You need rest,” Moriarty tells him. He places the somewhat mangled bullet into his waistcoat pocket. “Go to sleep for a little while. I'll have dinner brought up to you later.”

“'m fine,” Moran mumbles, struggling to open his eyes again.

“Go to sleep, Moran. I'll sit with you a while, if that would help.” Moriarty has no idea why he says this but from the Colonel's sleepy grin in response it seems to have been the right thing to say.

Moran sleeps, and Moriarty sits and watches Moran sleep, and he thinks. Green's behaviour surely proves that it is folly to trust anyone, that even a man one has known for years and believed to be loyal can be bribed to betray you. This much has been revealed to him through Burke and Porter _persuading_ Green to reveal his motives for trying to shoot the Professor – another man has bought him, tried to bring him over to his side, paying him to kill the Professor in the process.

Moran's behaviour however would seem to entirely contradict the notion that nobody can be trusted. Yes, Moriarty has bought him; in a very real sense he owns Moran, but he is sure such selfless unthinking devotion cannot be bought so easily. There seems to be something else in play here. _You saved me first,_ Moran said. Moriarty had naturally assumed he meant his close encounter with a cab but Moran obviously has something else in mind. Moran is not entirely stable; he is the product of a troubled history, of a lifetime of abuse, mistreatment, abandonment, isolation – Moriarty knows this. Only now though is he beginning to fully grasp truly how broken and betrayed the Colonel felt by being forced to leave the only institution where he thought he could belong; therefore how much it meant to him for someone, a total stranger to him at that, to put his faith in him.

He looks peaceful in sleep, Moriarty thinks. He watches the steady rise and fall of Moran's chest beneath the blankets. The Professor thinks of when he was himself a boy, when his little brother Jamie would try to cuddle up close to him when he was scared. Moran is no silly little boy who thinks there are monsters under the bed but something about seeing Moran like this, looking very small in what is rather a large bed, reminds him of when he tried, awkwardly, to comfort Jamie.

Moriarty has never had a friend before, not really. Jamie was the only person he ever even came close to showing affection to but Jamie is a blood relation and doesn't really count as a friend since the Professor's attitude towards him is more down to a sense of obligation than anything else. His elder brother loathes him and is loathed in return. In school there was a boy who followed him round like a devoted and rather stupid dog who Moriarty was quite happy to make use of in certain ways and was content to protect from bullies in return, but he would still never have truly called him a friend. And he has acquaintances like Porter, who unlike that Judas Tom Green still remains loyal to him. But Porter is most certainly not his friend.

Moran though... Moran is infuriating, stubborn, desperately insecure behind his brash and cocksure exterior, also often exceedingly reckless. Also he curses; he has a propensity for drinking and brawling when he is upset; he is promiscuous in a way which makes it astonishing that he hasn't either already been publicly exposed as an invert or got himself either murdered or at least _unmanned_ by some enraged husband. Even that accent of his, with its tendency to wander into the darkest reaches of South or occasionally East London despite Moran's thoroughly decent upbringing, should make Moriarty find him insufferable.

Instead though he finds Moran pleasant company, someone who knows when to keep quiet when he has nothing much to say, having a knack for knowing when the Professor would prefer silence and never trying to fill the voids in conversation with vacuous nonsense. And as he told Moran before, he finds nothing particularly objectionable about Moran's personal habits. Moran always dresses smartly if somewhat plainly and he keeps himself clean. Moriarty finds himself peculiarly sensitive to certain stimuli and the reek of a human body that has gone long unwashed is one of his most despised odours. Moriarty also loathes being touched without his consent, and Moran seems to subconsciously understand that. Moran is also someone whose stubbornness betokens his great strength of will despite his own insecurities. His less salubrious habits, like his drinking and getting into fights, should hopefully be curtailed by giving him a greater sense of meaning and purpose again. As for his cursing and his accent, far from disliking these Moriarty actually finds them oddly charming. Moran refuses to be bound by the unwritten but often rigidly enforced rules of polite and proper society, and how thoroughly refreshing that is to find in a man of Moran's breeding. His promiscuity is the only thing that really concerns Moriarty. It does not vex him per se but he would rather not have to deal with the fall out of Moran seducing someone he probably shouldn't have and while he has covered for one of Moran's thoroughly illegal past sexual encounters already he would prefer not to have to keep doing so (that's all it is, of course – entirely practical considerations. Of course).

The Colonel is sleeping peacefully now and Moriarty thinks it is probably safe to leave him for a little while so long as he is checked on regularly. As he stands up to depart the room though he finds himself instead moving closer to the bed, somehow drawn to stand beside Moran's head. Before he knows it his hand has moved to lightly touch Moran's face, to very briefly brush his cheek. His eyelids flutter and Moriarty freezes, feeling as if he had been caught doing something far more inappropriate than merely lightly touching the Colonel's cheek. He wonders what on earth he is doing, what madness it is that has driven him to do something like this, something he has never wanted to do before. As Moriarty does dislike being touched, he has no particular desire to touch anyone else either, except when he can use touch as a means to imply dominance or superiority or control over them but clearly that is not his intention here.

Somehow it is different with Moran though, because he senses that Moran too does not want to be touched much, and yet he reacts with pleasure when Moriarty touches him. Even in sleep, instead of waking as Moriarty might expect him to he only stirs slightly and... is he _smiling_? The Professor thinks a smile seems to flit across Moran's face, very briefly, before he seems to sink deeper into sleep again.

Perhaps, Moriarty decides, drawing up a chair, it would be best to sit and watch him for a few minutes more.

~

Over the breakfast table, Moriarty says, “I'm not sure what to do with you.”

They sit at the table alone. Burke has already left and Porter is probably still down in the kitchen flirting with the maid. What exactly has happened to Green, Moran has not really felt like asking. He hardly cares. The man put a bullet through him so his charitable feelings towards the fellow are in extremely short supply. He has little doubt though that the man is dead by now. Moriarty was clearly not inclined to be too magnanimous towards Green either.

Moran pauses in trying to stretch across the table to reach the butter dish, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder. “That sounds ominous,” he says.

With a small sigh, Moriarty picks up the dish and places it before Moran. “That isn't how it was meant. I mean because of behaviour such as that,” he says. “Or even coming downstairs in the first place. You should have remained in bed. You over-exert yourself.”

“It's only a minor wound.”

“It is a _gun-shot_ wound, Moran!” Moriarty snaps, causing Moran to pull back a degree, somewhat startled. He has not seen the Professor behave so before – the man was all ice cool and restrained fury when confronted with Green's betrayal, nothing like this heated anger when faced with Moran's stubborn refusal to accept his present compromised state. “You need to heal,” he says, much more levelly now, “but I need to return to the university. So, the question remains, what should I do with you?”

“You don't need to do anything with me, I can manage fine by myself.” As he says this Moran, trying to butter a slice of toast using only one hand, somehow manages to shoot the piece of toast off the edge of his plate and onto the floor. “Shit,” he says. “Well, _mostly_ I can manage fine by myself,” he concedes.

Moriarty picks up the fallen toast without a word and places it aside. Still in silence he takes a fresh piece from the rack and spreads butter on it before placing this on Moran's plate. He pointedly does not say that Moran cannot presently even dress himself properly without assistance never mind butter his own toast – the Colonel has managed to get into his shirt but it took him an age to button it and his jacket is only draped around his injured shoulder, with his left arm currently resting in a sling to try to discourage him from moving the arm too much, not that it's working very well. Putting on a tie is beyond his abilities currently, as is tying his own shoelaces, something which the Professor had to do for him before they came down to breakfast, realising it was probably less strain on Moran to do that and then accompany Moran downstairs than to try to get Moran undressed and back into bed.

“If you remain here or return to London by yourself I know full well you will push yourself too hard too soon and do yourself some further mischief,” Moriarty says. This time Moran has the good grace not to disagree with him. “You will have to come with me, I think.”

“To the university?”

“To my rooms nearby.”

“I see.” Moran thinks this over for a few seconds, deciding that despite the humiliation of being unable to properly carry out even some of the most basic tasks in his present condition, the idea of staying close to the Professor for a while is not all bad. “If you think that's best, sir.”

Moriarty eyes him rather strangely. He had been expecting further resistance to the idea, more protestations that he is able to manage by himself even though that is palpably not true. The notion of further drugging Moran in order to move him without a fight had even crossed his mind, very briefly.

He still doesn't fully understand himself though why he wants to keep Moran close. It is true that Moran is hurt and needs time and rest and care in order to heal and true also that probably the Professor is the only person he may listen to even slightly on the matter. Certainly he will not pay attention to any doctor or nurse that Moriarty could hire to tend to him and short of locking him up or keeping him sedated there is probably nothing any medical professional could do to stop the Colonel pushing himself too hard too soon.

But the idea of playing nursemaid to anyone is not something that appeals to Moriarty. He is actually very good at encouraging his students but that kind of nurturing is very far removed from the kind of care that Moran needs right now. Yet still it has not even crossed his mind to foist Moran onto someone else or leave him to his own devices. Of course it is because Moran has shown himself to be both capable and loyal and Moriarty has need of his services, that must be why it matters to him that Moran mends properly. Although it is true also that Moran was injured protecting Moriarty. The Professor has probably never truly felt guilty over anything in his life and is not about to start now, particularly not when he was not the one who shot Moran nor did he have any reason to mistrust Green, but the reason for the Colonel's current state probably does create a certain sense of duty on Moriarty's part.

But that isn't it though, not really; it's not really about duty or obligation at all. He thinks he actually likes Moran, truly. Moran is still perpetually wary and mistrustful, still loathe to put his back to windows or doorways ever and still deeply resistant to taking any kind of pain relief lest this render him too vulnerable. Still too he is clearly burning up with resentment towards the world and most of the people in it, but he trusts Moriarty – Moriarty had that suspicion confirmed when Moran calmed down and stop trying to fight sleep when he offered to sit with him. Anyway Moriarty himself could certainly be described as misanthropic so Moran's overall suspicious nature hardly clashes with his. There is also something oddly sweet about seeing how Moran flushes with pleasure when he is praised. Moriarty is a hard man, a cold man, in many ways, but not immune to deriving satisfaction from the enjoyment of others. His motives may not always be selfless, far from it in fact, but ultimately does it really matter if one's motives for doing something kind for another are motivated by selfishness if the outcome is the same? If he behaves kindly because he derives pleasure from seeing the effect of his kindness on someone then everybody wins.

“I do think it best,” he says. “You need proper care and I should ensure you get that.”

“Right sir.”

“Then it's agreed.” Moriarty takes a sip of his tea. “I shall get Porter to arrange things.”

“Porter ain't comin' too, is he?” Moran looks vaguely horrified at the idea of being stuck in a house with the ratty man with his loud suits and rambling anecdotes, particularly when he is too weak to easily escape from him.

Moriarty smiles. “Don't fret,” he says. “He will make the arrangements for our journey for us, since you are indisposed and I do not concern myself with such minutiae, as a rule. That is all.”

Moran seems somewhat mollified by this and chews thoughtfully on the corner of his piece of toast. _Our_ journey, the Professor said. How easily he has slipped into speaking of the two of them as _us_. How easily too has Moran slipped into what is seemingly some strange parody of domesticity with the Professor, taking breakfast with Moriarty while he nurses a bullet-wound to the shoulder due to a botched assassination attempt and out there somewhere not so far away the would-be assassin is probably already dead, if he is lucky.

He surreptitiously tries to glance at the Professor across the table. For his part, Moriarty is impeccably attired in his dark suit, hair neatly slicked back. Moran cannot help but notice his hands, with the beautifully manicured nails. They are the soft hands of a man who has probably never done a day's hard work in his life, because he has never needed to – not though perhaps because he comes from a background of immense privilege (for, so far as Moran can tell, he did not; he had a good education, but not much more than that), more because he likely has always been adept at manipulating someone else to do the necessary hard (or indeed, dirty) work for him. The only callouses on his fingers come from holding a pen or pencil, although sometimes there is ink smudged on his fingers or chalk dust smeared over them. This morning though they are perfectly clean.

“Everything all right?” Moriarty enquires, seeing the faint look of puzzlement that suddenly crosses Moran's face.

“I... yes sir. Just... would you mind pouring me another cup of tea please?” Which is not remotely what he would like to ask but he does not dare ask that. He doesn't especially want any more tea (a good cup of strong coffee wouldn't go amiss though) but at least it covers any potential awkwardness that would ensue were he to ask about the thought he has just had.

“Of course.” The Professor presses the back of his hand to the teapot, testing its warmth, before pouring another cup for Moran. “Here you are.”

“Thank you sir.” Moran takes it with his good hand and for one delicious moment Moriarty is once more so close to him, before he withdraws back to his own seat. That hardly helps put the thought that caused Moran's consternation out of mind – that thought being: _Did I dream about him stroking my face?_

 


	4. Well hallelujah, we are depraved

When Moriarty goes to look for Moran he isn't in the sitting room where Moriarty last left him. Infuriating man, Moriarty thinks, going off in search of him. At this rate they will be late to catch their train.

Moran isn't in the house at all, as it turns out. The Professor finally locates him outside, in front of the bay horse standing between the shafts of the trap which is waiting to take them to the station. Moriarty hesitates as he approaches. He had been about to berate Moran for wandering off without him when he is still suffering the effects of the blood loss, but something about Moran's serenity here makes him pause.

Moran has his forehead resting against the horse's long nose whilst holding onto its neck with his good arm, apparently for support. He seems to be breathing in the animal's scent.

As Moriarty tentatively approaches, the horse flicks an ear in his direction and its nostrils flutter but it makes no other movement. Its attention seems largely focused on Moran. The Professor wonders what exactly is passing between beast and man here. He has the strange sense that it is something profound, that somehow these very different creatures are in some ways kindred spirits.

“You miss your own horses,” he says softly. He rests his leather-gloved hand on the horse's glossy brown neck. The horse lifts its head slightly to regard Moriarty from behind its blinkers, probably sensing that the Professor is not actually that comfortable around horses. It seems however to accept that he is no threat and drops its head again.

Moran straightens up slightly although he still rubs the horse's cheek with his knuckles as he does so. “I s'pose.”

“You are allowed to miss them, you know.”

“Don't pay to get attached to anything though, does it?” Moran turns to glance at the Professor.

“Says who?”

“Dear old pater.” Moran gives him a bitter, forced smile. “Not so much in words though, more... actions.” Because anything he ever got attached to – possessions, animals, people – always disappeared or got destroyed. After a time he had learned it was safest not to play with toys, never to have a pet, never try to befriend another child, never show attachment to anything or anyone.

But he still sorely misses the horses he had to leave behind. And there are still one or two people he has got _attached_ to, one of them probably dangerously so.

He glances at Moriarty again, whose hand seems to have clenched very slightly.

Moriarty remembers when he was a boy, the one time he had actually gained himself a caning by hurling himself at a bigger boy, straddling him before gripping him by the hair and pounding his face into the ground repeatedly. One of his few impulsive acts, all because he had seen that bigger boy chase down a one-legged but otherwise healthy pigeon Moriarty had been feeding for several weeks, and kick it violently into the wall, leaving a streak of blood and feathers down the bricks and a sad broken little corpse on the ground. He was caned for his assault on the older boy, yet he remembers clearly too looking into the eyes of the man who delivered the punishment, realising then that the man was afraid of him, less for the boy's clear capacity for violence, more for the way he was so _still_ , so unreachable. He had faced his punishment with flawless dignity and perfect calm, never flinching, never crying out. _“He's not natural, that boy,”_ he had heard the man say later. _“Bloody depraved inhuman little bastard.”_ Moriarty had heard that not so long after that the man had turned heavily to drink and had died in a fire seemingly caused by leaving his pipe burning whilst he slipped into a drunken stupor. The older boy had eventually gone off, with his now rather flattened and crooked nose and the scars down his cheek, and joined the army, and had his brains blown out not long after that probably by some foreigner who took especial offence to this particular Englishman. So it goes. The pigeon, meanwhile, was laid to rest a few hours after its death in a little hole in the ground behind the school by that same _depraved_ _inhuman little bastard_.

“Sir?” Moran says. “What are you thinking about?”

“A pigeon, Moran.”

“I see.” Moran doesn't really look like he does see. “You are... fond of pigeons, are you?”

“Indeed.” Moriarty rests his gloved hand gently on Moran's arm. “It's all right to get attached,” he says. He smiles, and Moran feels his heart seem to skip a beat. “Come along then, we need to be going before we miss our train.” Moriarty offers Moran his arm.

Moran hesitates.

“You are very pale, Colonel,” Moriarty says. “Just take my arm before you keel over.”

“I do not keel over,” Moran says, mock huffily.

“Well you certainly won't if you take my arm,” Moriarty points out.

Moran takes his arm. It's only for a few steps but actually, it's nice, to be so close to the Professor, feeling the strength of his body so near to him. Moriarty helps him up into the trap in the same way he might assist a woman, but Moran is too caught up in the feel of the Professor's gloved hand holding his briefly to think about the action and its implications any further.

“Are you all right?” Moriarty asks once they are underway. “You really do look very pallid.” Perhaps it is too soon for Moran to be travelling. He should have left the Colonel back at the house for a few more days, only he knows that if he had Moran would not stay there. In a few hours he'd probably be trying to get back to London by himself, that or follow the Professor anyway.

“'m fine.” But Moran does feel rather light-headed and the jolting of the trap isn't really improving things much.

“Put your head down between your knees.”

“I'm not some wilting maiden, Professor.”

“No, you are a man recovering from a recent severe injury and the resulting blood loss. Stop behaving like a disobedient child and put your head down.”

“I do so like it when you're masterful, sir,” Moran says, grinning impishly as he finally puts his head between his knees. It wrenches his shoulder a little, although between the position and no doubt all this fresh air around them he starts to feel a little better after a few minutes. Or maybe it's the Professor's hand on him that helps. Moriarty's gloved hand rests against his back, not really doing anything, almost as if he has forgotten he even has it there. Moran declines to say anything or lift his head up even after the feeling of faintness has receded; he wouldn't mind if the Professor kept his hand there all the way to the station.

“Any better now?” Moriarty asks a few minutes later.

“Yes sir, thank you.” Moran cannot quite bring himself to lie, and thus Moriarty's hand is withdrawn.

“Now will you listen to me when I tell you not to overexert yourself?” the Professor asks.

“Yes sir,” Moran says, but what he actually thinks is, _'Would disobeying the Professor be so bad if it gets him to touch me again?'_

~

Moran spends most of his time not merely bored but irritable too. It is not only the pain or the itch of the healing wound which irritates him but the enforced idleness, being cooped up in this house which is most definitely not a home all day. He supposes it is something that Moriarty seems not to expect him to be on permanent bed rest but since aside from being in his bedroom he is only permitted to lie or sit upon the sofa downstairs and not exert himself he is probably not that much better off than if he was still in bed. He does consider trying to leave the house but he suspects if he does the Professor will find out and be most displeased with him and somehow the idea of disappointing the Professor in such a way is sufficient to cause Moran to abandon such thoughts. It still doesn't help alleviate the tedium though.

But he cannot entirely regret the situation, not when the Professor comes home. Not his usual accommodation this, nonetheless Moriarty has moved in temporarily in order to supervise Moran's recovery. Still he is not here very much, him spending most of his time at the university, but they take their meals together; Moriarty enquires about Moran's health; Moran asks how Moriarty's day has been and listens to him talk about his students. It is oddly formal, never straying too far into personal talk, yet at the same time rather more informal than would be expected from two such men, and it is strangely pleasant.

Usually when Moriarty returns Moran is awake and alert, often restless and frustrated and in the process becoming increasingly bold when it comes to cursing around the Professor. But when Moriarty enters the sitting room this evening he sees Moran lying on his side on the sofa, hunched up, a blanket pulled over him. Strange, for him not to awaken. Moran ordinarily seems to have a sixth sense for the presence of someone else in the room even when he is asleep but now he does not move.

“Colonel?” Moriarty says softly, not wishing to startle him.

Moran twitches in his sleep, so at least he isn't dead. But he does not awaken.

“Moran?” His voice is steady but Moriarty is beginning to grow concerned. His own trusted doctor has been attending regularly to check on and redress Moran's wound as necessary and had proclaimed it to be healing well, but what if he was wrong? What if Moran's mistrust of medical professionals is wholly justified and Dr. Marchant has a made a grievous error in stating that there was no infection?

Moriarty takes a step closer towards Moran, who jerks again but still doesn't open his eyes. He looks pallid still overall but there are spots of colour in his face that the Professor doesn't like the look of. His hair seems damp too. Moriarty reaches down to touch him, perhaps to feel his pulse, perhaps to check if his skin feels hot.

Moran's eyes fly open, he grabs the Professor hard by the wrist and then, still hanging onto Moriarty's arm, he lurches forward, all but falling off the sofa.

Moriarty's face is impassive, almost an emotionless mask, but internally he is fairly sure his heart missed a beat when Moran rose up like that. He can feel the strength of Moran's fingers around his arm, digging into the bone even through his clothing.

“Fuck,” Moran says through his teeth as the pain of his sudden movement catches up with him, burning through his shoulder. Now the whiteness of his knuckles around Moriarty's wrist would seem to be entirely from the pain, not from some instinctive reaction to try to... what? Kill him? Drive him away? He looks up at Moriarty, somewhat bleary-eyed. At last he seems to realise how tightly he is holding onto Moriarty's wrist and releases it. “Sorry,” he says.

“Sit here.” Moriarty guides him back onto the sofa. Stooping, he retrieves the blanket from where it has fallen onto the floor and drapes it around Moran.

“God, sir, I'm so sorry. I was... dreamin', I think.” Moran's breathing sounds laboured, punctuated by pain.

“Dreaming about what?”

“I don't... I don't know.” Something bad, Moran thinks, something monstrous, something he does not wish to confront in his waking hours. He is shaking still, be it from the effort he just expended in moving or the pain or the subconscious recollection of the terrors in his sleep, or all of those.

“You have nightmares often?”

“Sometimes.” Rather more often than Moran would like to admit to.

“I thought perhaps... you were feverish.” Moriarty does not add _or maybe dead._ He definitely does not say that the thought that unsettled him the most was not the disorientated Moran grabbing him like that but his momentary fear that Moran had indeed died in his absence. “Have you opened up the wound again?”

“I don't think so.” But Moran is far from sure.

“Should I send for Doctor Marchant?” Moriarty asks, sensing Moran's uncertainty even though Moran thought he had concealed it well.

“God, no. The man spends enough time here already pokin' and proddin' at me. I'm startin' to think he gets some weird pleasure out of it. You take a look if you're so concerned.” Moran isn't sure he actually meant this but anything has to be better than that bloody doctor with his icy-cold hands coming round again. His shoulder certainly hurts like hell and he hisses in pain as the Professor very gently eases his jacket off it. There is no blood visible on the white shirt, nor on the bandage when Moriarty carefully undoes the shirt enough to examine him further.

“I think you're all right,” the Professor says, and there is clear relief in his voice. After fastening and rearranging Moran's clothing he now does put the back of his hand to Moran's forehead. His skin feels slightly damp but not hot. Probably not feverish then.

Perhaps it is merely a swoon caused by overexertion, but Moran seems to lean against the Professor's touch. Instead of pulling away, Moriarty lets his hand remain there for a few seconds, before both of them realise what they are doing and draw back from each other.

“Should I... fetch you something for the pain?” Moriarty asks. There is an unusual amount of hesitancy in his voice. More usually he might simply state his intention but around Moran he is increasingly finding himself feeling lost and adrift, uncertain quite how to proceed.

“No!” Moran's voice comes out oddly strangled. “No, sir, I mean... I'm all right.” For some reason he cannot bear the idea of the Professor leaving him right now, not even merely to go and fetch the medicine.

“If you are in pain you need not suffer through it,” Moriarty points out. “We live in an age with easy access to pain medicine.”

“Still tastes like shit though,” Moran says. He laughs. It's true anyway, the stuff does taste vile, but it's also easier to say that than admit that he loathes how helpless being drugged always makes him feel. “Don't think it 'elps with the nightmares either.”

“Well... if you're sure. Perhaps you'll feel up to eating something shortly?”

“I should think so sir.” Moran has rarely felt less like eating in his life in fact, but he can probably stomach it if it keeps the Professor happy.

Indeed over dinner Moriarty keeps watching him, noting when Moran does eat something. Moran thinks he should find it a little creepy but Moriarty does seem pleased when Moran manages to get most of his meal down which does go a long way towards negating any strangeness.

 “Your dreams,” Moriarty says, when the dinner plates have been cleared away. They have moved into the drawing room, where Moriarty stands warming himself in front of the fire while Moran lies on the sofa. “Or nightmares. What are they about?”

“Told you, sir, I don't remember.”

“I'm not sure that is the whole truth though.”

“Maybe not the _whole_ truth,” Moran admits. “True enough though. I don't... remember them much once I wake up.”

“Something you saw in India, perhaps?” Moriarty suggests. “A tiger, perhaps.”

But Moran knows the beast in his dreams is no mere tiger, it is something far more monstrous. Something with a human face.

“Or in Afghanistan?”

“Does it matter?” Moran asks. “They're only dreams. Whatever's in 'em ain't gonna manifest in the room or anything.”

 _No, just torment you indefinitely,'_ Moriarty thinks. But however good he may be at observing people and reading them and knowing their thoughts sometimes before they do, he cannot prise open the Colonel's skull and poke about in its contents until he finds and excises the offending _thing_ from his nightmares.

“Do we 'ave to keep talking about this?” Moran enquires.

“Not at all. What would you prefer to talk about?”

“Well...” Moran scratches at his injured shoulder.

“Don't do that,” Moriarty says at once, even though his back is to Moran while he is warming his hands.

Moran puts his hand down and continues as if nothing has happened. “Maybe you could tell me something about you,” he says.

“What about me?”

“I don't know. It's just... you seem to know everything about me, you've even seen pictures of me with my arse and a lot more hanging out.” Moran laughs. “But I don't know much about you.” Which is probably how an employer and employee relationship would normally go – most normal employees might know the barest details, such as if their employer is married for instance, but not intensely personal ones. But there is nothing very normal about their situation.

“All right.” Moriarty turns to face Moran, keeping his hands spread either side of him, palms towards the fire. “I have two brothers, Colonel Moriarty who you know about, and another.”

“Older or younger?” Moran asks.

“The Colonel is older, the other is younger.”

“Do you get on with 'em?”

“Yes and no.”

“One yes and one no?”

“More like... one sometimes and one no. Colonel Moriarty, no. But Jamie is... easy enough to get along with, on the whole.” As long as he isn't trying to recite poetry at him anyway, or wax lyrical about his blasted trains. Moriarty cannot endure Jamie when he starts doing those things.

Moran narrows his eyes. “Your other brother is called Jamie?” He knew about Colonel James Moriarty of course but this revelation adds a whole new dimension to things.

“Technically,” Moriarty says, “we are all called James.”

“That's...” _Really fucking weird_ , is what Moran would like to say. “Odd.”

“My parents were rather uninspired people.”

“Yes,” says Moran. “I think I guessed that.”

“Jamie though became Jamie when he was a small child. My older brother however... he and I both steadfastly refused to surrender the name James to the other. He tried to call me 'Jim' for a while even so, but he stopped that after I gave him a black eye and threatened to blacken the other one if he did not cease. Now we solve the matter simply by trying to ignore each other's existence as far as possible.”

“I see.” Moran is rather caught up on the image of the Professor beating up his older and probably bigger brother. At least from what he can remember Colonel Moriarty is a big chap, taller than the Professor, although Moran was fairly drunk at the time and really didn't care about making small talk with him anyway so his memory of the man may not be flawless. “He told me about you though,” he recalls. “Only in passing, I suppose.”

“He remembers I exist when it suits him to brag about our family name – he cares about _that_ a great deal. He loathes me however, and the feeling is mutual.”

“And your parents?”

“My father is dead. My mother... well she did rather come out of her shell a little after her husband's demise but she is rather away with the fairies, so to speak.”

“So... you're not exactly close to your family?”

“No. I see Jamie from time to time and we are on amicable enough terms, but generally, no we are not a close family.”

Moran considers this for a while, thinking of his own family, most of them long dead – mother, _legitimate_ siblings, grandparents – with only a father who seems to regard his sole surviving legitimate son's worst crime to be that he did survive at all. As interesting as knowing more about the Professor is, now he rather wishes he hadn't pressed him for more details about himself. Doing so has only made Moran think of things he would rather forget.

“Anything else you'd like to know?” Moriarty asks.

A great deal, Moran thinks, but most of those things he could never actually ask, at least not without having an idea what the answers might be first, which would rather defeat the purpose of asking in the first place.

“Probably,” he says. “But I don't think you'd like a lot of the questions I could ask.”

“Why don't you try me?”

“What if you don't like the question?”

“Then I will not answer it.” Moriarty looks down at Moran, the hint of a smile on his face. “Go on.”

“All right.” Moran straightens up slightly. “Why did you become... like this? Some sort of...”

“Depraved master criminal?” Moriarty smiles wryly.

Moran laughs. “I wasn't gonna say depraved.”

“You thought it though,” Moriarty says, still smiling. “Because I could,” he replies.

“That's it?”

“Do you want some tale about an austere home, parents with no love to give, an elder brother who was a spiteful bully, an isolated little boy who seemed to be understood by nobody, being surrounded by people he could not truly understand either, a boy who saw too much and thought too much and could barely cope with it sometimes? Because all of those things are true, but I don't believe any of them are the answer. The answer is because I could, and because I wanted to, and I saw no reason not to.”

Moran laughs abruptly, genuinely highly amused. “You are unique, Professor,” he says.

“I would hope so.” Moriarty smiles. “Although I think you too, Moran, are not so far away from me in many regards.”

Moran's expression changes, from amused to something more contemplative. “Sir,” he says after a pause. “What do you mean 'a boy who saw too much'?”

“For as long as I can remember I could notice things nobody else ever would, take in details it seemed everyone else would overlook and remember things in a way which seemed to be considered highly unusual. It is a blessing, in some ways. I have heard people make claims about me being capable of reading their minds. It certainly is not a bad thing to allow some people to believe that I can, but it is only a matter of noticing even the most minor details about them – sometimes things as trifling as a speck of dust may reveal much about where they have been that day for instance. However, there are times when everything becomes too much – too much input, too much data, and it can be overwhelming.”

“Is that why you... don't like being touched?” Moran dares to ask. When Moriarty looks at him more intently, perhaps thinking this question is too personal, he seeks to provide his reason for asking this. “I've just... Sir, I've seen you flinch when some people touch you, or seem to be about to.”

“It's not merely touch, though it is true, I dislike anyone touching me without my permission. Sometimes it is other things about a person too though that become overpowering when they are close enough to touch me. Their body odour or the timbre of their voice for instance.”

Moran closes his eyes briefly, remembering. “When we met properly the first time,” he says. “You said, 'I find nothing particularly objectionable about your person'.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Does that mean...” Moran drops his gaze,

“What, Moran?” Moriarty asks softly, taking a step towards him.

“That you don't mind my company?”

“I find your company very pleasant.”

Moran seems to positively light up at this response. His actual smile is the subtlest quirk of his mouth but it shows far more in his eyes, which seem to glitter with pleasure. “That's good to know, Professor,” he says. “If I may ask though, sir, if you can do all those things... why did you not realise Green was about to try to kill you?”

Moriarty laughs grimly. “I may _see_ a great deal, Moran, but I cannot always understand or correctly interpret what I see, particularly when it comes to human behaviour, human emotions. I saw that he was nervous; alas I did not fully account for exactly what he was nervous about. Fortunately however I had you to make up for that.”

Moran seems to flush again at this remark.

“Bearing all this in mind,” Moriarty continues, “I feel that your employment with me should become somewhat more permanent.”

“I rather thought it _was_ permanent,” Moran says. “Surely nobody actually leaves your employment?” He laughs. “At least, not _alive_.”

Moriarty looks at him steadily again. What an odd man Moran truly is, he thinks. Most men would be terrified of this idea, that the only possible way they can get close to him and then escape his orbit is through death. But Moran seems amused by it; he seems even to take comfort in this notion. Far from finding it threatening he seems to find it reassuring that the restriction is there. Probably it is the closest thing the Colonel has had to stability in his life in a long time.

“True,” Moriarty says. “But I was meaning more simply that your role with me should become more settled, more fixed, and that I might come to rely on you more, once you are fully recovered. Your salary would also increase with any increase in responsibilities.”

“Right sir,” Moran says.

He does not ask about the money, Moriarty notes, which rather confirms a suspicion that has been forming in the Professor's mind. Moran doesn't care much about the amount he is paid so long as his needs are met. He is not prepared to work for him just because Moriarty will pay him well. Nor does he work for him only because he is too afraid to do anything else. Moran's motives seem to be something else entirely, not mercenary, not fearful, which puts him into that rare category of _other motives_ , ones which Moriarty is far less sure about.

 


	5. I'm feeling like a villain, got a hunger inside

Some days later, over breakfast Moriarty presents him with a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “For you, from London,” he says. “Since you would be here for a little while I took the liberty of having your post sent up here.”

Moran looks at the parcel sitting there on the breakfast table beside his now empty plate.

“It would appear to be a book,” Moriarty remarks.

“Yes sir.”

“Are you not going to open it, or am I to infer from your hesitation that it is something rather _risqué_?” Moriarty smiles as he spreads marmalade onto his slice of toast.

“God no,” Moran says, pulling the package towards him. “It's just...”

“Just what?”

“You might think it's daft.”

“That you have had your book published?” Moriarty is still smiling as he bites the corner off his triangle of toast.

“How did you...?” It would not surprise Moran too much if Moriarty has been prying into his correspondence with a publisher for the manuscript he has been working on intermittently for a year or two now, but somehow it doesn't really feel like something the Professor would do, not to him.

Moriarty chews and swallows. “I see, I observe, as do my servants. I have not pried into your personal letters, I assure you, but when I happened to glimpse – purely accidentally, I promise you – the manuscript you kept amongst your things, then one day you receive a letter which was marked on the outside of the envelope as being from a publishers and a little while after that you then receive a book-shaped package from the same publishers... it does not take too many leaps of the imagination to infer that you have had your book published.”

“I see.” Moran considers this for a moment. It sounds reasonable enough. “Actually though I meant... you might think it's daft, the subject matter.”

“Something to do with hunting no doubt.”

“Yes sir.” Moran smiles. “Something to do with it.”

“Well, it is not my area of interest, but I would hardly call it 'daft'.” Moriarty watches Moran pull off the string and begin to unwrap the brown paper.

Moran takes the contents out, holding it carefully between both hands, and lays it down on the table, and he just looks at it for a while. _Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas_ by Colonel Sebastian Moran it says in fairly plain but beautiful gold letters across the cover.

“I must congratulate you, Moran,” Moriarty says.

“Thank you sir.”

“You must let me read it sometime.”

“Would you want to?” Moran looks up from the book, surprised.

“Of course, unless you prefer that I didn't?” Moriarty grins. “Are there some personal revelations in it that you think may leave me shocked and appalled?”

Moran laughs. “No sir, not when you already know the things that you know about me. I just didn't think you'd be interested.” He opens the book and flicks through a few pages.

“I am interested in anything you do.” Moriarty nonchalantly takes another bite from his toast.

Moran ponders this sentence. That much was already apparent, since the Professor seemed to know almost everything about him before they even met properly. Anyone else might interpret such words as being a little sinister though; as an implication that they are to be allowed no freedom to do anything that the Professor does not approve of or else spy on. Moran though dares to hope that Moriarty means this in a far more benevolent way; that expressing an interest in a book on a topic he cares nothing for purely because Moran is the author is his way of showing support or friendship towards him.

“It is strange that you appear to have no hunting trophies,” Moriarty comments.

“You expect me to lug a load of boar's heads and stuffed tigers around the world with me?” Moran laughs. “Anyway, I do have a tiger skin rug.” The thing may have featured in one or two of his dreams about the Professor in fact. Although it is looking a little bit worse for wear and wasn't exactly in prime condition even when the animal was wearing it, before Moran put the poor creature out of its misery. Man-eating tigers... they are rarely the implacable, cunning beasts in their prime that some of the myths would have people believe them to be. At least in Moran's experience mostly they are just too old, sick or injured to go after anything but the easy prey that humans can be.

“Other hunters like to surround themselves with the beasts they have conquered,” Moriarty points out. “They have rooms full of the unfortunate creatures, stuffed and mounted. They have walls full of photographs of themselves posing with some dead animal. They revel in it, glory in it. You, however, have none of that.”

“I don't need any of that.” Moran closes the book and considers Moriarty's words for a moment. “I didn't hunt for... for the glory of it, or just for the sake of killing. I did it because... well sometimes it was just about providing food. But sometimes... I liked the whole experience of it, going different places, seeing different sights. And because...”

Moriarty tilts his head slightly to one side to regard him. “Because you saw yourself in those creatures? The tigers, in particular?”

Moran swallows. Nobody has ever asked him about this before and he has never truly had to consider his motives therefore, but he knows, he never hated those animals no matter what rumours and stories of their bloodthirsty and cruel natures were spread about them; no matter how many times tigers might have snatched up a child which would then never be seen alive again. He respected them, he _loved_ them, those beautiful dangerous creatures. He always knew, one moment of inattention, one tiny slip-up during the hunt, and they could kill him without hesitation, but perhaps he loved them even more for that fact, for such ruthlessness, such disregard for human life, no compassion, but also not malicious, not evil, just a magnificent animal being an animal. And yes, he saw himself in them, both of them predators, both of them killers. Man and tiger could not occupy the same space, this was simply a fact of life, and death – the more human settlements encroached into tiger territory the more humans were killed by tigers thus the more tigers were then killed by humans in turn – but what he felt for those animals, even when they stood in opposition, blue eyes meeting yellow ones, it was love and it was understanding.

He nods. “Yes, I suppose I did.” He wonders if it should seem odd that the Professor understands this, but it does not.

Moriarty gives him an enigmatic smile, perhaps pleased to be given confirmation. “I was thinking perhaps you may be well enough to return to London in a few days time,” he remarks at length.

“I suppose.”

Moriarty senses the flatness of Moran's tone. “I thought you would be desperate to return there and get back to work.”

“Get back to work, yes, of course I am. Can't say I still see London as my home though.”

“Even though you were born there?”

“I barely spent any time there though as a boy.” Really Moran is thinking he doesn't want to go back to the empty house in Conduit Street, at least empty save for the servants and Porter whenever he hangs about there being too familiar for Moran's liking. He has become more and more used to this strangely domestic arrangement with the Professor.

“I'll get Dr Marchant to come and look at you in a couple of days and see what he says.”

“Again?” Moran rolls his eyes. “I am perfectly well, sir.”

“You are still healing. Even when you return to London I do not want you over-exerting yourself until that wound is completely healed.”

Moran wonders exactly what Moriarty counts as 'over-exerting' himself. No strenuous fucking then, maybe. He had better tell Kitty to keep things a bit calmer than usual then, _not that she'll likely take much notice,_ he thinks.

~

“So what exactly have you been getting yourself involved with?” Kitty enquires, tracing her finger over the healing scar on Moran's shoulder. “Actually maybe I don't want to know.” It's probably something very stupid, perhaps an enraged husband taking pot-shots at him after catching Moran in bed with his wife, or some drunken game with a pistol or some other such foolishness, she suspects, knowing Seb as she does.

“Just an accident.”

“Slipped and fell on a bullet, did you?” She laughs scathingly. “Thought you'd left all that behind when you left the army.”

“So did I,” Moran admits. Kitty has been fairly relaxed about the injury and even that he disappeared for a time without actually remembering to inform her where he was or, indeed, of the fact that he wasn't actually dead. After an initial exclamation of, “I thought you'd dropped off the face of the bloody earth!” things had more or less returned to normal between them.

It was definitely rather remiss of him though, he realises, though in his defence he _had_ just been shot and lost a fair amount of blood, and it's not as if Kitty is his wife or anything. But he does still feel a bit bad about forgetting to tell her where he was.

“This something to do with your professor?” she enquires, and Moran is not sure how he feels about that, any of it – the way she refers to Moriarty, _your professor_ , when the man is not really Moran's at all, is he? That and bringing him up when the pair of them have just been at it like a pair of especially amorous rabbits. Is that because bringing up Moriarty when he's with Kitty feels like a betrayal of her, or because he feels like he's betraying the Professor somehow in coupling with Kitty again? He has no idea, truly.

“Told you, it were just an accident.”

“Aye but you're a liar, Seb.” She laughs as she slips out of the bed. Her long red hair falls down her bare back, gleaming in the soft lamplight, as she pads across the rag rug on the floor and ducks behind the screen in the corner.

Moran rolls over onto his back and lies there staring up at the web of hairline cracks across the ceiling. He can hear water splashing behind the screen and the fire crackling in the grate. It's warm in here, peaceful, and he feels sated and sleepy. Kitty won't be too happy though he supposes if he goes and falls asleep on her again – likes to have the bed all to herself at night, does Kitty.

When she emerges from behind the screen again she is dressed in a loose shift. Not the most flattering of garments ordinarily, she still manages to look stunningly lovely in it as she walks over and sits on the edge of the bed beside him.

“So,” she says. “Tell me about him.”

Moran looks up at her, perplexed. “Who?”

“You know exactly who. I so much as mention the word 'professor' and you get this look in your eyes. Wistful, like.”

“Don't be daft.”

“I reckon only one of us here is daft and it ain't me. I ain't the one pinin' after some mathematics professor.”

“I ain't bloody pining,” Moran scoffs.

Kitty shrugs, utterly disbelieving. “Call it what you like then, but you're practically bloody moonstruck.”

Moran opens his mouth to protest this further, then holds his tongue. He looks at Kitty – young, beautiful, sharp as a razor (probably _too_ sharp, for many men's tastes; many of them do so like a woman who is docile and obedient), and unobtainable, really. As unobtainable as the Professor himself likely is. Kitty no more wants to tie herself to him and bear him a brood of baby Morans like some dutiful wife is _supposed_ to than she'd want to saw off her own arm. In fact she might consider sawing off her own arm the more pleasant of the options, after seeing the fates of various other women who have entered into wedlock.

Moran himself is hardly sure about the whole marriage and children malarkey but he would like other things – someone who doesn't kick him out after they fuck would be nice for starters. Not that the fucking isn't very nice – it is, it's good, it's bloody _great_ , actually. But...

Moran feels he should be shocked there is a 'but' these days – he used to be the fuck 'em and leave 'em type himself not so long ago - but in truth it doesn't surprise him at all. Growing older, having to leave the army, having to leave the country he'd spent years in, along with everything else that was, if not home to him exactly, then at least familiar, it's changed him. Taking a wife and having children with her still doesn't seem like something that appeals, but the taking a wife part perhaps has less to do with the notion itself and much more to do with the fact that, as it turns out, it is not a woman he has developed the appropriate feelings for.

“Is there any possibility he's interested in you?” Kitty asks.

“Probably not.” It's easier to agree with Kitty than argue with her, Moran thinks. It's not that he's infatuated with the Professor or anything, he just... admires him. And wants to kiss him. Wants to fuck him, certainly. But more besides that. He is sure he is not bloody well _moonstruck_ though.

“But you don't know?”

“I don't think he's interested in _anyone_ that way.”

“So you're just torturin' yourself without really knowing anything for sure.”

“So what, you expect me to go up to him and ask him, what, 'Are you a Mary-Ann, Professor? A backgammon player? An _invert_?'”

“Maybe he is.”

“And maybe he ain't, maybe he only likes me as long as I never remind him of that part of me, maybe if I get it wrong I'll lose my job, _at best_.” Moran is almost inclined to think that the Professor might actually murder him should he be offended, although hopefully Moriarty would at least regard doing so as being impolite. Maybe he will be more the type to politely invite Moran to commit suicide instead, he thinks wryly. “Why the hell am I even discussing this with you?” he wonders out loud, laughing, no malice in the question. Most women would surely take offence at the idea that the man they've just enthusiastically given themselves to actually yearns for another man.

“Because, perhaps stupidly, I care for you, Seb.” Kitty brushes her fine pale hand across his cheek and once again Moran is made starkly aware of the contrast between her and Moriarty, the physical delicacy of her compared to the Professor, her bold but breezy femininity contrasted with the Professor's solid, composed masculinity.

Both alluring to him in very different ways, only he knows already that he and Kitty are not compatible in any _romantic_ sense, and sadly he has the same suspicions about himself and the Professor. Perhaps Moran is doomed to only ever develop feelings for unattainable people.

“I don't want you to be unhappy,” she says.

“I'm not unhappy.” He says this almost automatically, because it is sort of true, he supposes. He is not miserable as such, working for Moriarty – he has a good house to live in, a job and work to keep him occupied, a good salary, and he gets to see the Professor fairly regularly. They are on good terms even if those terms are far from being what Moran truly desires. He has something that he had thought upon returning to England after all those years away from the place that he would never have again – direction and purpose in his life. But there is still something lacking from it, he supposes that much is true. “If he was interested in me... he's had opportunities to make that plain to me.” Times when Moriarty could have kissed him, could have given Moran some signal to indicate to him that he desires him as Moran desires Moriarty.

“Maybe he's as scared as you are.”

Moran laughs derisively, trying to imagine the Professor being scared of anything.

“Or maybe he's as confused as you are,” Kitty suggests. “Or maybe he's concerned about the fact that he's your employer and he don't want you feeling pressured into anything.”

“Or maybe he just don't like anyone in that way. You don't. I mean... except for... that part.” Moran waves a hand vaguely. Sex, he means. He doesn't mean this as an accusation, only as a statement of fact. Kitty has always desired him in _that_ way and was never shy about making that fact known to him but when it comes to something softer, something romantic... those feelings are simply not there. It's not that Kitty doesn't love – she loves him, in her own way, as he too loves her – but as for romance, she is even more scornful about the notion than Moran himself is, and whilst she may be far younger than him he has no doubt that she knows her own mind on this.

The Professor though... Moran wouldn't be surprised if the man has never had a sexual urge in his life, never mind some manner of romantic feelings. Oh he has certainly cared for Moran when Moran was hurt but what if that was only from some sense of duty and obligation towards the man who saved his life? Although he seems to regard Moran as something approximating a friend at least, and Moran thinks he could bear to be simply friends with the Professor, if that's the only thing Moriarty is comfortable with, but then there's the doubt about even this, about whether Moriarty truly does care about him in this way. Moriarty has a front to uphold, the veneer of respectability to maintain, and Moran harbours the suspicion that the Professor might feel so little for anyone at all, even him, that it would make no difference to him to take a wife purely for the sake of preserving that illusion of being only some quiet, refined, absolutely respectable mathematics tutor. He would not be the first man to marry purely for the sake of preserving his reputation. Of course Moran has no objection to women generally but the idea of bringing a wife into the mix is intolerable, even one who is in truth little more than an _accessory_.

“ _I_ don't, but that don't mean he feels the same way I do,” Kitty points out. “You'll never know until you talk it over with him, Seb.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“I'm not sayin' that, I understand the risks you will have to take to do that, but that doesn't mean it ain't true. You won't know anythin' if you never talk to him about it.”

“I _can't_.” How does one even begin to raise such a topic with one's employer? Even with a friend? Even a close friend may still take umbrage at the idea that one's male friend harbours thoughts about sexual intimacy with him, about having a relationship with him akin to that which most men would only have with a wife or mistress. “You don't know how much I have to lose, Kit, if I misread things with him.”

“That's cos you're such a secretive bastard,” she points out. “Maybe I'd understand better if you told me more.”

“I can't do that.”

“Suit yourself. Well anyway, you can't go on tormentin' yourself not knowing.”

“Why am I even discussing this with you?” Moran laughs again.

“Because you trust me. Because you know I don't judge you for what you feel. Because you know too I'm right.” Kitty grins.

“Yeah,” Moran concedes at last. “But I _hate_ that you are.”

 


	6. Count the ways, I'll do anything you say

“I have a rather more personal errand for you to run, if you don't mind that,” Moriarty says upon Moran's arrival in his study.

“No sir, I don't mind,” Moran says. He doesn't actually say _'I'd do anything for you'_ but the implication is probably there somewhere.

“It is something very important to me, lest you think that I am giving you only some trivial task to carry out which is beneath your capabilities. I need someone upon whom I can thoroughly rely.”

“I'm your man, sir,” Moran says, and then seems to blush for a reason Moriarty cannot quite fathom. “I mean... you can trust me with anything, sir.”

“Good, good.” Moriarty opens his desk drawer and removes a piece of paper. “This address is that of someone who I have commissioned to make a particular piece of jewellery for me. I would like you to go there and examine that piece and if you think it is fine enough, deliver it to this person at this address.” He taps his finger against a second address written some way below the first on the piece of paper. “I will need you to deliver it by hand, do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very good.” Moriarty slides the piece of paper across the desk towards him but does not yet relinquish it. “The other list refers to the other items I need you to procure to deliver alongside the first piece.”

Moran glances briefly down at the paper. Although upside down he can just make out a list of... flowers?

“All the places you will need to visit to procure the items are listed and everything is already paid for. I am known to them and they will know to expect you; tell them your name and that I sent you. All you have to do is collect everything and deliver it to the recipient, along with this note.” Moriarty now produces a thick cream-coloured envelope, sealed. He slides this across the desk also.

Moran, sensing a whiff about this of what might be termed as an _affaire de coeur_ , at least in most men, narrows his eyes slightly.

“Any questions?” Moriarty enquires, giving up the envelope and the list to him.

“Yes sir,” Moran says, taking the items, glancing briefly over both and identifying a matching name both on the envelope and above the address where he is to deliver the items. “Who is Irene Adler?”

Moriarty smiles, steepling his fingertips together. “A fascinating woman, Moran.”

Moran feels his heart sink a degree. He likes women himself of course so he knows an interest in women hardly totally excludes the possibility of a man also having an interest in men, but he had never assumed the Professor would take the slightest bit of notice of a woman. It feels as if he has totally failed to account for something significant here.

“She is an opera singer, a contralto. I first saw her in Milan, at La Scala, and I was captivated by her voice, her talent, and by her clear passion for the music.”

Moran carefully tucks the envelope away in his inner jacket pocket. “If you don't mind me saying so, sir, it's hard to conceive of you being interested in a woman.”

“I am drawn to the unconventional, to the outré, to the rare, to the exquisite. Miss Adler is... all of those things.” Moriarty closes his eyes slightly; he seems to be recollecting something, quietly humming a snatch of music. “Do not mistake my meaning, Moran,” he says after a moment, opening his eyes again. “These things that I wish you to deliver to her, they are mere tokens of my regard for her talents, no more.”

“Expensive tokens,” Moran says. He has noted the name of the jewellers he is to go to and it is not exactly someone a person on a tight budget would purchase anything ready-made from, much less order a custom piece from.

“She is worth it. If you could hear her perform, Moran, perhaps you might understand, although I have heard it said by others that her face also is extremely beautiful. Perhaps that is more your area of interest than mine.”

Moran scrutinises this comment for a second or two, searching for any indication that this is meant as some jibe at him, but he finds none. The Professor seems genuinely to be only stating that while Moran is attracted to women, he is not.

“Are you, er, expecting any response from her?” he asks.

“None at all,” Moriarty replies. “I am simply her anonymous admirer, M, who merely wishes for her to receive this small gesture of his regard for her works.”

“Right sir. I'll get on and do that then now, shall I?”

“Yes Moran, you do that.” Moriarty drops his attention to the papers on his desk. “Oh, and Moran,” he calls, just as Moran is leaving the room. “Thank you.”

~

“Well, what do you think? Will the Professor be pleased with it?” the jeweller, Mr Rosenthal asks.

“That's really... something.” Moran stares at the necklace, lying on its dark velvet backing and glittering like so many interlinked stars. He has never been that concerned about jewellery – it's all just bits of shiny stuff isn't it, looks nice enough on some women or occasionally on a man but he isn't going to lose his mind over it the way some people seem to – but even he cannot seem to tear his gaze away from the fiery glint of the small diamonds set amidst beautifully worked white gold. It rather makes the necklace he gave to Kitty a while back look like a piece of shit, he thinks, when he had actually thought at the time that that piece was very nice. “I'm sure the Professor will be very pleased with it,” he says. Now he is truly grasping the importance of this task and why it is no mere trivial errand the Professor has sent him on. Moriarty would not have entrusted most people with an item of such value. Despite the fact that he is to deliver the thing to someone for whom the Professor has expressed admiration, Moran feels not jealous suddenly, only immensely proud to have been given the task.

“Strange that he did not come here himself to collect it,” Rosenthal remarks as he packs the necklace carefully away.

“He's a busy man,” Moran says. “Couldn't get away from his other obligations.”

“He must trust you a great deal, to send you on such an errand,” Rosenthal remarks. A comment casually made no doubt simply to fill in what might otherwise be a somewhat awkward silence, though for Moran it seems only to make the atmosphere feel even more strained.

“I suppose so,” he says.

“Well, there we are.” Rosenthal hands over the necklace inside its box which he has then wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Please take good care of it.”

“I will,” Moran says, slipping the flat package inside his inner pocket, close to his chest.

“And please give my warmest regards to the Professor when you see him next.”

“Aye, I'll do that too.” Moran tips his hat to Rosenthal as he leaves. “Well, goodbye then.”

~

Moran feels rather foolish now, standing in the dim corridor outside a somewhat dingy looking door, carrying a bunch of flowers almost half the size he is. Probably everyone here is used to men like him turning up, bearing flowers, carrying gifts, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of whichever performer they have their eye upon. The fact that Moran has never laid eyes upon Miss Adler in his life though, nor heard her perform, makes this situation somewhat more strange.

Not exactly some grand opera house, this; just some slightly shabby theatre. He supposes she has to make money where she can in a way which makes best use of her assets. Of course the overall tired air to the theatre would not have stopped the Professor from attending, he suspects, if Moriarty hadn't been engaged elsewhere.

“Yes?” a shrill female voice demands, as someone yanks open the door. A woman perhaps in her mid-forties glares at him.

“I have something to give to Miss Adler, madam,” he says, for this is evidently not the captivating Irene who stands before him, unless the poster image of Irene Adler outside has been designed by an artist who is almost blind perhaps.

“Hand it over then.” She seems to make to snatch the flowers from him but he takes a step backwards.

“I have been entrusted to hand them over personally, madam,” he says, politely but firmly.

“Very well.” The woman seems to roll her eyes at him but opens the door wider anyway. “Irene!” she bawls, and Moran winces. “Someone for you!”

“Come in, my dear,” a voice calls to him. Softer, gentler, and clearly American by its accent. Somehow Moran had not expected that.

He steps into the room, giving a polite nod at the shrill-voiced woman as he passes her, and he sees Irene Adler for the first time.

She turns from her dressing table mirror, standing up at his approach. She is still young, no mere child but perhaps not much older than Kitty, hair a fiery copper, much of it pinned up in curls. Rather dainty in build, but there is something about her face, her expression that, without seguing into cruelty, suggests a firmness of character that makes Moran immediately grasp why even a man such as the Professor could find her captivating. There is an almost mischievous look in her pale eyes as she regards Moran with her chin tilted up slightly.

“I, uh..” He clears his throat and holds out the flowers towards her, as well as the bottle of champagne he also had to pick up before coming here. “I have been sent to deliver these.”

“Oh?” Miss Adler smiles at him and raises a narrow eyebrow at him. She takes two steps forward, leans over and sniffs at the bouquet. “Then these beautiful flowers are not from you?”

“No, madam, I am just the, ah...”

“Delivery boy?” she suggests with a warm smile which makes what might otherwise have seemed like an insult sound only like an amusing compliment.

“Yes, madam.”

“Please, madam makes me sound so old,” she says. “Miss Adler, if you like. Or Irene.”

“Miss Adler,” he says. He is still holding out the bottle and the flowers, which are surprisingly heavy. Mercifully she finally takes them from him and he is able to reach into his pocket and retrieve the other two items he has been entrusted with. “Your... admirer also bade me give you these,” he says, and holds out the flat package and the sealed envelope.

“And who, exactly, _is_ my admirer then?” she enquires, setting the flowers and the champagne down on her dressing table.

“I cannot say, ma-Miss Adler.”

“Cannot or will not?” she says, smiling, and Moran thinks he would die for her in that instant when she is looking at him so. “Don't worry, I will not press the matter. Some men are shy, after all. If he wishes to keep his identity secret, that is his prerogative.”

Moran thinks that 'shy' is probably not the most apt word to apply to the Professor, but he does not correct her.

She takes both the items from him, looking most intently at the envelope. A flicker of recognition crosses her face, which makes Moran realise that this is not the first time the Professor has sent her gifts. “Should I open these in your presence, or would my _admirer_ prefer me to examine them alone, do you think?”

"I, er...” Moran hadn't really thought about this, never having expected to be asked such a question. “I should think it'd be best if you opened them when I've gone,” he decides. At least he is growing more and more certain he does not want to linger in order to be interrogated by this entrancing woman as to the identity of the man sending her such _tokens._ He has to admit though that he is curious to know what exactly the letter says.

“Well then.” Adler stretches over towards her dressing table, plucks up a slender nail file and uses this to slice open the envelope. “Sorry,” she says, grinning. “My hand slipped.”

Moran watches this, thinking of when Moriarty sent him a letter on that same expensive cream paper. How much his life has changed since he opened his own envelope.

“ _Dear Miss Adler, I send you these gifts as a small token gesture of my regard for your talents. Please do not infer from this that I desire anything more from you than that you keep on performing. I remain sincerely yours, your admirer, M_ ,” she reads. She glances towards Moran. “The mysterious 'M' again. Is that you, dearest? Are you 'M', really?”

“No Miss Adler,” he says. Although he hasn't failed to notice that he and Moriarty share not only the same first letter to their surnames but the first three letters. Put together it makes him think of tedious Latin lessons as a boy. Mor. Mors. _Death_.

“Your employer then.”

“I'm just the errand boy,” he says.

“Of course you're not, dear boy.” Adler smiles as she turns and sets down the note and envelope on the dressing table. “Now, what do we have here?” she muses, unwrapping the parcel.

“Sweet baby Jesus!” the older woman exclaims from the background when Adler opens the box containing the necklace. “Are those _diamonds_?”

All of the thing's fire is brought forth again even in the low light of the room. Adler seems less astonished by the contents of the box than her companion but even she lets out a faint little gasp.

“See, I was right.” Adler removes the necklace from its velvet nest, dangling it over her slender hand. It sparkles even more vividly there against her pale skin. “No mere errand boy would be entrusted with something like this, now would they?”

“I suppose not,” Moran says. He is not sure he is entirely comfortable with how Miss Adler looked at him as she made this last comment. It almost seems as if she suspects there is more to Moran's relationship with the Professor than meets the eye.

“What does he want from me?” she asks, looking up from the necklace into Moran's eyes. “Truly?”

“Truly?” Moran says. “I believe it is precisely as it says in that note. He is...” He wonders how to express it. “Not exactly a ladies man,” he concludes. He wouldn't put it past Moriarty to have some scheme requiring Adler in mind, but this does not seem like the way he would go about such things. In that case likely he would be far more direct. Besides, he saw Moriarty's face when he spoke of Adler. Not quite the look of a man besotted, it was certainly one of admiration. Moran is starting to realise there is a whole side to the Professor he has never seen before, capable of feelings Moran had never thought he could feel. He wonders what that means in regards to him. Is the Professor capable of experiencing some intense passionate feeling for _him_ also? “He is simply a great admirer of your singing.”

“A _very_ great admirer,” the other woman says.

“It would seem so.” Adler smiles as she regards the necklace again. “I should not accept this, it is far too generous a gift.”

“I believe he would be deeply offended if you refused it, Miss Adler,” Moran says. “Please, accept it as it was meant, as a gesture of appreciation, no more.”

“Darlin', if you don't want it, I'll gladly take it,” the other woman says.

“Very well,” Adler says to Moran. “You may tell your employer that I am immensely grateful for his gift, and that I am touched that he continues to be such an admirer of my singing.”

“I'll do that Miss Adler.” Moran doffs his hat at the two women before he turns to leave.

“Also he has excellent taste in jewellery,” Adler remarks from behind him as he is exiting the room. “Not bad taste in employees either,” he hears her comment just before one of them closes the door, and gets the distinct impression that both women were regarding his backside as he left.

On his way out he almost collides with a rather dashing dark-haired chap carrying a bunch of flowers.

“Very sorry, my good man,” the dark-haired fellow says, swerving around Moran. Although there is definitely a fraction of a second where they eye each other rather speculatively before the dark-haired man heads towards Adler's dressing room and Moran continues on towards the exit.

 _Not as big as the Professor's_ , he notes about the flowers. _Handsome,_ he thinks about the man.

~

“So you saw her?” Moriarty asks, splashing scotch into a glass. He hands it over to Moran.

“Aye, saw her, gave her all your _tokens_.” Moran sits down and sips his scotch. “She said to tell you that she is immensely grateful for your gift, and that she is touched that you continue to be such an admirer of her singing.” He notes the Professor's smile at this. “Oh and apparently you also have excellent taste in jewellery.” He doesn't add the part about the 'not bad taste in employees either', which would seem a tad too boastful for even Moran to repeat.

“What did you make of her?” Moriarty asks, pouring a second drink for himself.

“A fine woman. Beautiful, extremely beautiful, but I think... far more than simply beautiful. She probably has a clever mind also.”

“She is an actress, you know,” Moriarty says. “As well as a fine singer.”

Moran considers this for a moment. He knows exactly how many people perceive actresses, as little better than whores, or literally as whores in some instances. Moran though does not judge. In fact he'd rather spend several hours in the company of any actress than a minute in the company of a duchess or queen.

“I'm not unaware of what many think of actresses,” Moriarty says, as if he has read Moran's mind.

“Does it bother you that... Miss Adler is that kind of woman?”

“Why should it?” Moriarty waves a hand airily, as if to brush off the question. “Such prejudices are for ordinary men. I, however, am not ordinary.”

“There was another chap going to see her as I was leaving,” Moran says, remembering the brief encounter with the man whose passing interest in him seemed to be a bit more than just considering him as a rival. “Brought flowers too.”

“Norton, probably. Her gentleman friend. A lawyer I believe.” Moriarty sounds thoroughly indifferent to this. Clearly he has researched enough about Irene Adler that he knows the name of her paramour but he states it simply as fact, without any emotional reaction to the presence of this Norton person on the scene. Truly it seems that he has no other regard for Irene Adler save for admiration of her voice. “He has your inclinations, you know.”

“My inclinations?”

“Also likes his own sex, as well as the fairer one, my dear Moran.”

Which hardly surprises Moran, given the look that Norton gave to him as they passed. He laughs. “Are you gonna tell me you have photographs of him in the buff with another fellow and all?” He takes another sip of his scotch. It's very good, smooth, pleasantly warming. He thinks he could get very nicely drunk on this, though he probably shouldn't. There are times when he is drunk and hurting that he lashes out violently but then Kitty has told him several times he's a maudlin drunk, one prone to making soppy declarations of love when in his cups. The last thing he should probably be doing is making some inebriated confession of infatuation to the Professor.

“I'm afraid nothing that exciting,” Moriarty replies. “I simply have ways and means of finding these things out.”

“For what purpose?”

“Sometimes no purpose at all - sometimes one cannot be choosy about what details one's informants discover. Sometimes though simply for the sake of curiosity.”

“So what was it with this Norton chap then?”

“A little from column A, a little from column B.” Moriarty smiles.

Sitting back against the sofa, Moran runs his finger idly around the rim of his glass. “What will you actually do with that information?”

“Are you still thinking about blackmail, Moran?” Moriarty enquires. “You should know that I would not do that over such a thing. His proclivities do not interest me. The way in which he treats Miss Adler interests me rather more though, although his interest in her seems wholly benevolent from what I can glean.”

“So you're her protector, are you, sir?”

“Is that such a strange notion?”

Moran shrugs. “Not really,” he supposes. At least not that strange for the Professor, he is coming to realise. Most of the men sending a woman such as Adler flowers, notes, even gifts probably only really want to get their leg over with her, but Moriarty is certainly not like most men. Maybe there is even something oddly paternal in his behaviour towards her, which conjures up some interesting thoughts in regards to Moran and his _strained_ relationship with his own father.

“Tangentially related to Miss Adler,” Moriarty says, “how do you like opera, Moran?”

“'s all right, some of it.” Although Moran doesn't admit to the fact that several times during his past trips to the opera he's missed large parts of the performances due to going off to be _intimate_ with some woman or man he has generally only just met. He can't make head nor tail of most of them either. Foreign languages he can usually get the hang of but not when people start singing in them whilst prancing about in fancy costumes.

“I have two tickets to a performance of Don Giovanni next week. Perhaps you would like to attend with me?”

“That's the one with the, uh... promiscuous man and the demons who drag him off to hell?” Moran cannot help but wonder if there is some sort of dig at him here.

“ _Il dissoluto punito_ ,” Moriarty says. “I do not think, Colonel, you are quite as bad as dear Don Giovanni.”

“Some might disagree, given my history.” Moran may be on dangerous ground, bringing this up, but he cannot let an opportunity like this pass by.

Moriarty's expression never changes though. No reminder of Moran's past sexual history ever seems to impact upon him. On the one hand Moran supposes this is a good thing, that the Professor is not the type to start frothing at the mouth in fury over the idea of a man putting himself about so and being none too picky about the sex of his partners either. But on the other hand still there is also a vague sense of disappointment, that Moriarty does not react in _any_ way. That Moran has been intimate with men seems not to interest him at all.

“Well, regardless of that, would you like to come with me?” Moriarty asks.

“Yes sir,” Moran replies, giving up on any hope of drawing Moriarty out further tonight about any possible deeper interest in him. Anyway, that Moriarty would invite him to a place like the opera, for pleasure rather than for business, is not something which is to be sniffed at. “I'd like that.”

~

To the opera, both of them attired in pristine evening dress, their hair neatly slicked down beneath their hats. Around them is a mixture of the same monochromatic attire as them – the men – and exquisite evening gowns in softer hues, pastel tones, beautiful bright jewel-like colours – the women, of course (although still there are one or two peacock-like men who defy the conventions and add a splash of colour to their own ensemble). There are so many people, so much colour, sound, life around them, Moran is not sure he is entirely comfortable here. So much cacophony and movement around them would make it very difficult to spot anyone who might try to harm the Professor. He wonders at the fact that far from being overwhelmed by everything, the Professor seems to revel in it.

“Do you not see too much in a place like this?” he asks when they are settled in their box. It gives them a degree of privacy but still from where they are seated he is aware of all those other people out there, all of the chatter, the brightness of the lights, the colours, the scents.

“If I let myself, then yes. But if I focus on particular details, usually no,” Moriarty answers. “And it is always far easier to block everything else out once the performance begins, when I can lose myself in that instead of trying to notice everything around me. It helps too, I think, to have a companion with me upon whom I can rely.”

Moran looks at him, touched by this. He has never really considered this idea before, that his presence alone is somehow reassuring to the Professor. He is still thinking about this when the performance is well underway, when the main lights have gone down and only the stage is illuminated.

Moriarty does seem rapt by the performance, by the music, by the singing, by the movements of the performers. He leans forward, hands pressed together beneath his chin, fingers interlinked, gazing downwards at the stage with a serene and entranced look upon his face. Moran has never seen him look so completely captivated by anything before. He wishes so much that he had the courage to reach over, to press his hand against the Professor's arm, or rest it against his thigh perhaps. Maybe Moriarty is so engrossed in the opera that he would not even notice that. Would he even notice if Moran was to simply stand up and walk out? Moran does rather have a craving right now for a cigarette.

He stays. Of course he stays, and does not regret this when, as a group of red-skinned cavorting demons drag the hapless Don Giovanni down into the depths of hell, Moriarty turns towards him and smiles at him.

“Beautiful, isn't it, Moran?”

Moran, uncertain if Moriarty is referring to the entire performance or the protagonist's fate, smiles anyway. “Yes sir.”

“Well then,” Moriarty says when the thing is finally over. And then he pats Moran's knee.

Moran goes very still, totally unsure what this means. Most employers would never be so familiar with their employees no matter how well they may get along. But the touch seems too brief and too low down to be anything other than simply a friendly gesture, doesn't it?

“Now a little supper is in order, don't you think?” Moriarty says, standing up as if nothing has just happened and apparently not noticing the perplexed look on Moran's face.

“Right sir,” Moran says.

 


	7. 'Cause thoughts devour, thoughts of you consume

A little over a fortnight since their opera trip, Moran finds himself called for again to accompany Moriarty to visit some businessman name Price. He is not quite sure why he is there – he cannot contribute much to anything Moriarty has to say to Price. Perhaps the Professor does want him as his bodyguard, although Price seems like a nervous and cowardly man and one highly unlikely to do anything to harm the Professor himself. Perhaps then he is simply there for the sake of appearances, to subtly intimidate Price further, although the Professor is more than capable of being intimidating himself. Moran is still pondering the Professor's reasoning hours later and still none the wiser.

“A successful day's work, do you not agree, Colonel?” Moriarty remarks over the brandy afterwards.

“Yes sir.”

“I believe Price is coming around to my way of thinking.”

“Yes Professor.”

“It should only be a matter of time before he relents.”

“I'd think so.” But Moran hardly cares about Price, only so far as he knows that if that silly little man who is prone to wearing outfits even more hideous than Porter's does not come around soon then the Professor will be bitterly disappointed. Moran does not want Moriarty to be disappointed. Sometimes the Professor's rare failures seem to slide off him like water but occasionally Moran has seen little glimpses of something darker that lurks in the Professor's nature, something Moran has experienced something of himself from time to time, something desolate, a mood that feels like ash, like bone, like death, like the smoke coming off the cremation pyres he saw in India. Except Moran suspects that Moriarty's mind is such that the depths of his melancholia, his despair, could plunge far, far lower than Moran's ever can. The higher one's star rises the further one has to fall; likewise the more brilliant one's mind the deeper one may plummet, and Moran knows he is not brilliant, not like the Professor is. If he could he would protect Moriarty from ever falling; he would take the Professor's pain upon himself to spare him.

Price himself though is utterly irrelevant to the Colonel. Probably Moriarty is right anyway, he usually is. And Moran is far more interested right now in thinking of kissing the Professor's lips, in wondering if he would taste the brandy again on the other man's tongue.

“You seem distracted, Moran,” Moriarty remarks. “Something wrong?”

Moran drags his attention off Moriarty's lips, shifting his gaze to meet those questioning blue-grey eyes. “Hmm?”

“Something seems to be vexing you.”

 _If only you knew what vexed me,_ Moran thinks. _That I want to kiss you, and touch you, and lick you and suck you and fuck you but also... I want to cherish you; nurture you; protect you; I want to see you stripped of all your pretence and illusion; I want to see you the way nobody else ever does; I want to see you vulnerable but only when I know I can keep you safe; I want to truly see your heart and not only your mind._

It would not take very much effort to lean over, to close the gap between them and press his lips against the Professor's. He could. He might. He won't. Moriarty could do the same to him if he had the slightest interest in such things. He knows of Moran's proclivities, knew of them even before they met thanks to those blasted bloody photographs. But the hope that Moran began to dare to nurture within him that Moriarty might in fact be interested in such things himself and, moreover, that he would be interested in such things with _him_ has all but been smothered by now. Time and time again there has been the perfect opportunity between them for Moriarty, were he so inclined, to make a move and kiss Moran. Time and time again he has failed to do so. Ergo, he is uninterested in Moran in that particular way. By now Moran has come to believe almost completely that Moriarty is what some refer to as a _natural celibate_ , entirely uninterested in any manner of messy – be that physically or emotionally messy – dalliances with anyone else, male or female.

Moran may behave like a fool at times but he is no coward, but this is a kind of fear he has never experienced before. Not merely the fear of rejection were he to make advances of a more physically intimate nature towards the Professor. More the terror that he could lose everything were he to do so only to be spurned – his friendship with the man, his job, perhaps even his life, although that last one actually concerns him the least. He is aware that love is a reckless, perilous game even at the best of times – making one do stupid things for its sake, putting one at risk of being hurt, exposing one's vulnerabilities to someone who could then turn around and exploit them. Occasionally people have claimed to love Moran – truly to love him – and he's seen some of the absurd lengths they have gone to to prove that, risking everything. To fall for a man though makes things even more risky and to fall for a man as terrible as Moriarty can be must be sheer madness. Moran though supposes that a man who has a reputation such as he himself has was probably never destined to do anything else but desire somebody both dangerous and seemingly forever out of his reach.

“Nothing's vexing me,” he says, focusing on the last of the brandy in his glass, swirling the liquid around. “I'm just... tired, that's all.”

“The nightmares again?” Moriarty asks, and doesn't that just make it worse for Moran? That sometimes the Professor seems to show understanding, albeit somewhat misguided understanding, towards him. If he was simply always cold then Moran could perhaps understand that more and better cope with it. In time perhaps he could even begin to move on from this almost crushing sense that his life amounts to nought without the Professor returning his regard in some significant way. But sometimes Moriarty at least tries to be compassionate towards him, and somehow that fact makes the pain even worse, because it sometimes comes _so_ close to what Moran craves, yet always at the last moment misses the mark.

“Yes sir,” Moran replies because it's easier to lie than to even begin to try to put the truth into words.

“Well then.” Moriarty stands up and moves to place his own empty glass back on the sideboard. As he passes Moran's chair he briefly pats the Colonel on the shoulder. He does not see the pained manner in which Moran, equally briefly, screws his eyes tightly shut.

That a man as touch-averse as Moriarty should touch him even in that way would seem to speak volumes. Moran has by now several times noticed him flinch when someone else has touched him. Yet he puts his hand on Moran as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to do. It should be enough. It _would_ be enough, Moran thinks, if that was all he could ever give to anyone; if Moriarty truly has no more desires for _anybody_. What Moran fears most of all still is more that the Professor might reject him, perhaps by taking a wife, even if only for the sake of his reputation and respectable career; that despite this current closeness between them it will turn out in the end that Moran meant no more to him than, well, someone like that fool Price for instance.

“If they trouble you again tonight you can come to me,” Moriarty tells him.

Moran is almost tempted by the notion. The humiliation of sneaking along to the Professor's room in the middle of the night claiming to have been woken up by a nightmare as if he is some silly child might be worth it, just to be close to him. But he won't, of course, because he's sure Moriarty's kindness will not possibly extend to anything Moran really wants from him – no invitation to join him in bed, no embrace. “Thank you sir,” he says.

“I should let you go to your room and retire to bed then,” Moriarty remarks. He glances back at Moran, who turns his head to regard him.

Again just for a moment he almost dares to hope that Moriarty's pause and manner here means something; that he is trying to convey some subtle opposite meaning; that he does not want Moran to leave to go to his own room at all. Moran still possesses a terror of sleeping beside most people, of rendering himself that vulnerable in the presence of another. But to leave to go to a cold, empty bed tonight is the very last thing he wishes to do, but now the Professor is holding the door open for him and Moran, with a sinking heart, thinks Moriarty simply means what he says, no more than that. It is not a rejection, not really, especially not when Moran is the one who has claimed to be tired. A rejection would be much more forceful, more explicit and more violent, even, and likely result in the severing of cordial relations between them. Moriarty has never been anything but kind to him, save for his severity when Moran tried to push himself too hard when his injury was too fresh.

“Goodnight then, Moran,” Moriarty says.

Moran stands up and walks towards the door. The Professor still holds it open for him, ever courteous, but this means that as Moran leaves he is obliged to pass close by Moriarty, close enough to touch him, close enough to smell his hair oil and the faint aroma of the soap he uses. Again he thinks how easy - at least in terms of physical distance - it would be to kiss Moriarty, to slam the door and then push the Professor back against the wall perhaps, to clamp his mouth tightly over Moriarty's, to fist his hands in that perfectly slicked down hair and ruffle it up, and then to lead him to bed, not to sleep.

Moran still wonders if Moriarty is a virgin. If he is then Moran would be delighted to relieve him of his virginity, patiently and slowly (if that is how Moriarty desires it) showing him all the myriad ways he knows to pleasure a man. The Professor seems so entirely oblivious to Moran's interest in him that the Colonel might be justified in assuming that Moriarty is wholly lacking in sexual experience. And yet there is still something about Moriarty's nature that suggests to Moran that he might have tried sex before, if only to see what the fuss was about. If he has done, Moran thinks, he almost certainly didn't actually manage to find its appeal. It hardly seems the kind of subject that has been appropriate to raise with him though, despite their increasing closeness.

“Goodnight, Professor,” Moran says, slipping out into the corridor.

Moriarty gently shuts the door behind him. Moran walks a few paces down the dimly lit passageway, far enough to be sure he is well away from the door Moriarty has just closed, and he leans back against the wall. Were anyone to be passing him they might observe a look of incredible anguish written upon his face as he tilts his head back momentarily, eyes shut once more.

Not a rejection, he thinks, _so why then does it feel so much like one?_

~

In his room that night, after falling peacefully to sleep Moriarty wakes with a start in the dark a couple of hours later. He lies there wondering what has awoken him. _'Moran?'_ he thinks. For a second or two he has the strangest idea that Moran is going to be right there beside him. Moriarty starts to reach over towards him, then stops himself, chiding himself for being silly. Aside from himself the bed is empty, the room is empty, and Moran does not come to him.


	8. If this is the lullaby, then why am I not sleeping easy?

Moran is not exactly sure why the Professor wants him here either.

“It's about forging connections, Colonel,” Moriarty had told him, which still doesn't make a great deal of sense to Moran considering the kind of people they are supposedly forging these connections with. They are the Professor's people, the academic lot; hardly the sort Moran can hope to have anything in common with.

“You have something in common with me,” Moriarty had pointed out when Moran had tried to express this to him.

“Yeah,” Moran had said, “but not cos of that. Cos we're both criminals.” This seemed to have amused Moriarty a great deal.

He is far less amused now however, standing in the reception area of The Crown hotel, feeling tired and irritable from travelling with still nowhere to go to get himself cleaned up and refreshed before dinner.

“I'm really very sorry about this, sirs,” the concierge standing behind the reception desk says. “But all our other rooms are full and...”

Moran leans on the desk – he seems to have an unconscious aversion to standing up straight around most people, the Professor has noticed - and eyes the hapless man. Despite being taller than the Colonel the concierge looks rather unnerved by him, as if he is afraid that if he phrases things in the wrong manner Moran might grab him by the hair and start pounding his head against the desk or do something equally lacking in restraint. Moran's temper though has never got out of control in the time Moriarty has known him. Often his manner is far more flirtatious, sometimes consciously if he seems to think he can gain something through such behaviour, at other times probably entirely unconsciously, but the concierge is probably the last person he would want to flirt with right now.

Of _course_ the storm had to hit just before they arrived in the town, managing to rip a significant number of the roof tiles off just above the very rooms they were due to stay in, causing a significant leak. The west wing of the hotel is untouched by the storm but, alas, also fully booked, save for one room only.

“It _is_ a very nice room,” the concierge says, rather helplessly and probably not with a great deal of conviction.

“But only one room,” says Moriarty from behind Moran.

“It has a lovely view of the sea.” The concierge sounds almost desperate now. Perhaps he is starting to wonder if the Professor might be even more dangerous than the Colonel.

Moran glances back at Moriarty. “We could try to find somewhere else,” he says. Although he is tired and hungry and far from certain anyway that he is truly opposed to the idea of sharing a hotel room with the Professor. But Moriarty seems to highly value his personal space and perhaps he will simply refuse to share with anyone, even Moran, especially when it comes down to the unavoidable fact that one room means only one bed also.

But Moriarty says quickly, “No, no, never mind. It's getting late. One room will have to suffice.”

The concierge seems to breathe a sigh of relief as if he has just dodged a bullet. Odd, he will think later, because he will be utterly unable to put his finger on what it is about these two men that he finds so unsettling. They are perfectly courteous, perfectly polite, and they tip generously when a porter insists on helping them carry their luggage up to the room.

“It's... smaller than I thought it might be,” Moran says, regarding the room once the porter has gone.

“It cannot be helped.” Moriarty wanders over to the bed, which also looks rather small, and sits on it, bouncing experimentally on it to test the firmness of the mattress. “You're an army man, Moran, surely you must be used to sleeping in far from ideal conditions.”

“Of course sir, but, well that was war.” Moran glances at the faded print on the wall, depicting a rather forlorn looking stag in some insipidly misty glen. He is becoming less and less convinced about the concierge's claim that this is a very nice room. “I'll sleep on the sofa,” he says.

Moriarty looks up at him. “Do I offend you that much?”

“No sir!” Moran looks rather mortified at the idea that he may have implied he dislikes some aspect of the Professor. “I just thought... you'd prefer the bed to yourself.” He thinks of Kitty as he says this.

“Nonsense.” Moriarty stands up and moves over to the window to scrutinise the view. “Ah, there indeed is the promised sea,” he remarks. “I cannot say I find the sight especially pleasurable at present but perhaps in better weather it becomes infinitely more lovely.”

Moran though is oblivious to the view and is still stuck on the thought of sharing a fairly small bed with the Professor. “You, uh... you want to share the bed with me?”

“Hmm?” Moriarty turns back to regard him. “Well, do you snore?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then I can probably tolerate one night in the same bed as you,” Moriarty says, which seems to decide the matter once and for all.

~

After having dinner, which was decent enough to the Professor's great relief, they eventually prepare to retire for the night. While Moriarty goes off to put on his nightshirt, Moran is forced to confront the awkward realisation that he hasn't brought any nightwear of his own.

When Moriarty returns he finds Moran in the bed, the bed-covers pulled over him but clearly still dressed in his under-shirt.

“You don't have a night-shirt?” he asks as he turns out the light.

“I never thought, I... s'pose I'm used to sleeping naked,” Moran admits. And he certainly never expected to be sharing a room or bed with his employer.

“I'm not going to be offended if you sleep naked,” Moriarty says, climbing into bed beside him. “I have seen plenty of nudity before, Moran.”

_Christ, please don't start talking about Turkish baths and naked sea-bathing,_ Moran thinks. Although somehow he suspects Moriarty is not the type for swimming in the sea naked. If he ever went near the sea it would probably be in some full length bathing costume. Far from being off-putting this mental image is actually very appealing to him.

“Including those photographs of you,” Moriarty adds, which manages to be even worse than the thought of any baths or nude swimming, bearing in mind exactly what Moran was doing in those pictures.

“God, do you have to remind me of those, sir?” he groans.

“Why, are you ashamed of what you were doing in them?” Moriarty asks. “I never expected you, Colonel, to be feel that way about fornication.” He sounds amused.

Moran glances over at him. Illuminated by moonlight coming in through a gap in the curtains, the Professor's expression seems guileless, totally innocent. It is genuinely as if Moriarty has no understanding at all as to why bringing up such things, especially in this context, could leave him feeling embarrassed. Either Moriarty is far more of a heartless brute than Moran realised or he truly is essentially entirely sexless.

“I don't, about... the act itself,” Moran says.

“Because it was photographed then?” Moriarty says.

“Yeah.” Better to let the Professor think that's the real reason, Moran thinks. Better he doesn't know that Moran longs for him, yearns to do things with him as he did with that other man in those images, and far more besides, and the Professor bringing the matter up again... it just drives all of that home again, painfully.

“Well, those photographs are long gone now,” Moriarty points out, rather pragmatically. “You need not worry about them falling into the wrong hands.”

“That's good to know,” Moran says quietly, into the dark.

As it turns out the bed which looked not especially large with nobody in it now feels miniscule with two grown men lying in it.

Moran wonders what the protocol is for sharing a bed with one's employer. Should he precariously place himself on the edge to allow Moriarty maximum room? But that would be incredibly embarrassing if he falls out of the bed. Should he turn away from Moriarty? That would feel like an insult to him somehow, but he cannot possibly lie face to face with him though.

Moriarty lies there and wonders why Moran is lying so rigidly beside him. He even seems to be holding in his breath lest he inadvertently touch Moriarty whilst breathing. The Colonel has surely shared a bed with someone before; he has touched people and been touched by them and despite his innate mistrust of most people surely he cannot be that averse to human contact. But he lies there like a log in the bed, seemingly utterly unable to relax.

“You can move over this way you know,” Moriarty tells him.

“I'm fine,” Moran says hurriedly.

In the dark Moriarty glances at him, a little hurt by Moran's abruptness. Is there something offensive about him after all, he wonders? Does Moran find his scent unpleasant perhaps? Or does the Colonel no longer trust him? Perhaps he should have agreed to let Moran take the sofa after all, maybe he would have been happier there, but suggesting Moran get out of the bed now would probably just seem rude.

This is torture, Moran thinks - a peculiar kind of torture, but still torture. To be so close to the man he longs for closeness with, yet unable to touch him, unable to do anything but lie here stiff as a corpse in rigor out of terror of offending the Professor. And god he smells so good.... He wants to turn to him, press up tight against him, to breathe in his scent forever. Or he wants the Professor to fold him in his arms, to hold him securely, to rest his head against Moran's shoulder. Sex is actually way down the list of things he wants to do with or have done to him by the Professor right now, which surprises him somewhat, although if Moriarty was to suggest it of course Moran would enthusiastically agree to it.

But Moriarty just lies there. Moran glances back at him, wondering if he has already fallen asleep. He's not giving any indication of being awake still and Moran doesn't dare speak to him to check.

Moriarty feels Moran shift very slightly beside him. He wonders if Moran is about to say something but he only turns away again. Apparently not then. He had almost thought that Moran might _proposition_ him. He has increasingly come to think, upon noting the way Moran sometimes seems to regard him and then turns away abruptly when Moriarty notices him looking, that Moran does desire him sexually. It is disappointing to him now then that the Colonel says and does nothing, even though Moriarty doesn't really know why he finds it disappointing. Were Moran to make some manner of sexual advances he isn't even sure how he would react to this, but he thinks he would at least be flattered. Perhaps he is wrong though. Perhaps he is being foolish, thinking a younger and far more virile and experienced man like Moran could possibly see anything in him. Moran, as far as Moriarty can tell, is not the sort who has ever had a truly close relationship with anyone. His 'relationships', such as they were, have mostly seemed to be purely based on some animalistic desires and have been extremely brief. The Colonel has seemingly been too often hurt and let down by those who should have treated him better to trust most people and let his guard down enough to get close to them. But the Professor thought they were getting along well, that Moran even seemed comfortable being physically close to him. Yet here is the perfect opportunity for Moran to make some sort of move and instead he is only lying there stiffly and awkwardly, giving every suggestion that he would rather be anywhere else than this close to the Professor.

Moriarty closes his eyes and tries to sleep. Behind him Moran turns away, so that they lie now with their backs to each other, a space down the centre of the bed between them, and he too attempts to fall asleep.

~

Moran awakens slowly and with difficulty. Used to travelling and waking up in different places, customarily he is far more alert upon waking. Now though he is momentarily disorientated, having no idea where he is or whose body that is pressed against his or whose leg he can feel beneath his.

He opens his eyes and sits up with a start, finding himself looking at the Professor. Mercifully he still seems to be asleep, hopefully oblivious to the fact that in his sleep Moran has unwittingly cuddled up close against him (hopefully oblivious also to the fact that Moran has awoken with a particular part of his anatomy rock hard). Moran slips out of the bed as gently as possible, careful to leave the blankets pulled up over Moriarty.

When the Colonel is far enough away from the bed and has his back turned to him, Moriarty opens one eye and watches him. The contrast between this Moran, apparently desperate to escape the bed as soon as possible, and the one he found upon waking earlier, peacefully sleeping pressed against him, his arm draped across the Professor's chest, is disappointing.

Moriarty would have to admit to himself that he had a moment of panic when he woke up and found himself trapped in that way, but it had passed promptly upon remembering who he was with and why they were in bed together. It was nice, to see Moran like that, he thinks. Though his abilities have never seemed to be compromised by tiredness, the Colonel doesn't sleep enough still, Moriarty is certain, and he suspects that when Moran does sleep often it is plagued with nightmares. But this time Moran slept through the night seemingly quietly and untroubled. Moriarty would not have minded if the Colonel had wanted to stay in bed with him for a little longer. Even the fact that Moran had an erection doesn't bother him much. These things happen sometimes; it is only a biological function; sometimes it may mean something, sometimes it means nothing very much at all.

Moran leaves the room entirely now. Likely he's just gone to get washed and dressed properly, the Professor thinks. Or maybe for a smoke outside, his craving for a cigarette taking priority over his need to get more appropriately dressed.

When Moran returns some time later, fully dressed but also smelling of cigarette smoke, he finds Moriarty also dressed and standing re-considering the view out of the window. It doesn't look very much better even though the sun seems to be trying to break through the clouds.

“Did you sleep well, Moran?” Moriarty asks without turning around.

“Yes sir, very well. Uh... did you?”

“Very pleasantly. See, sharing a bed with me was not so terrible after all, was it?”

“No sir,” Moran says, but he looks down at his boots as he says this. The Professor seems to regard the matter so practically, he thinks. There were two of them and only one bed; they had to share it so they did. That was all. It means nothing more to Moriarty than that, obviously.

Moriarty glances back at him, unable to read what this means but feeling a little wounded still by how distant Moran seems. “Are you coming down to breakfast?” he asks.

“Yes sir,” Moran says, almost mechanically.

~

“You're very quiet this morning,” Moriarty remarks over their table in the corner of the dining room.

“Didn't know I was that talkative at breakfast any other time,” Moran remarks, cutting up his bacon. “Anyway, I don't want to talk while I'm eating.” He cannot abide those fellows who jabber away endlessly all through their meals, sometimes even talking with their mouths full. It's one of the reasons he always tried to avoid eating in company in the army. Better to be thought rude and unsociable than ending up screaming at someone _will you shut your bloody mouth for more than two seconds while you eat your damned food?_

It is true that Moran is not the most talkative sort, Moriarty supposes. He seems to be mostly a fairly taciturn fellow, which generally makes him a pleasant companion, and Moriarty cannot stand people who talk all the time they are eating either. But somehow there is a different quality to Moran's quietness this morning. He almost seems unhappy somehow, but Moriarty cannot see why that should be so. Perhaps he is imagining things though. Or maybe Moran just feels out of place here. Maybe he resents Moriarty for making him come with him. People are such difficult things to understand. Numbers he can make sense of; some animals even, but not human beings.

Moran eats his breakfast mostly in silence. He isn't hungry but enough time in the army and at war has conditioned him to be disinclined to refuse food when it's offered lest it not be forthcoming again any time soon – probably one of the very few things he has acquired from those days, except for a talent for killing and an even more massive chip on his shoulder when it comes to how he regards the British Empire. Besides, he has the suspicion that if he doesn't eat then the Professor will question him further as to what is wrong with him, and what is he supposed to say to that? _I want you and I want things from you that it's clear you cannot give me._

They have spent the night in the same bed, they are seated only a few feet apart at the breakfast table, but there may as well be a whole world's distance between the pair of them right now.

 


	9. Just a touch. It's not enough.

Things have been distinctly strained between them since that night in the shared bed. After breakfast they went on to make acquaintances and _forge connections_ as Moriarty called it. Moran though remained very quiet, although Moriarty did not find this particularly unusual. Since then they have been perfectly courteous to each other always, no raised voices, no rudeness, nothing to properly indicate that something has happened to curtail the developing closeness between them. But still things are different. When they do meet Moran will not look Moriarty in the eye any more for one thing, and if Moriarty tries to touch him even in the most fleeting and innocent manner, the Colonel seems to shrink away from the touch, no matter how subtly it is done.

Moran is pining. There is no other way he supposes he can put it, Kitty was probably right about that. He misses the intimacy that he seemed to be developing with the Professor prior to that fateful night. He misses seeing him, yet to see him would also be painful to him, a reminder to him of what he cannot have. When they do meet Moriarty is respectful towards him, still kind in his own way, still prone to touching Moran occasionally in his oddly proprietary manner, but Moran finds himself pulling back slightly when he does so. He's terrified – absolutely terrified – that if Moriarty touches him again he will no longer be able to hold himself back, that he will throw himself upon the Professor and kiss him madly upon the lips and blurt out some stupid, childish confession of adoration for him that will cause the Professor to likely run a mile or kill him or probably both, for it's clear to him now Moriarty does not desire him in the way Moran wants him and likely never will. The thought eats Moran up inside; he does not know how he will go on, desperately longing to see the Professor again but afraid to do so because seeing him only seems to make the situation worse. He needs to stay away from him as much as possible, he supposes, only that will make continuing to work for Moriarty rather more difficult. He is too much of a professional to have allowed his feelings to interfere with his work as yet but he isn't sure how long that can go on for. He supposes that it's probably a good thing that Moriarty is still at the university and has not given him any job that has required they be in close contact with each other.

Moriarty is not used to feeling this bewildered. Oh people confuse him frequently, with their illogical behaviour, their unpredictable emotions, their expectations about others, and to have someone else leave him bemused by their behaviour is hardly new. But he does not understand why, since they did seem to be getting along so well previously, Moran is now so distant. He understands even less why he cannot himself stop thinking about the Colonel, why it matters so much to him what Moran does so long as it hasn't affected his work, or why he feels so melancholic about the thought of Moran not caring about him any more.

He needs to see Moran, Moriarty decides, a week since they have last met. He is a man who likes his solitude – not merely endures it, actually _likes_ it – and who has never needed real closeness with people before, but he misses the Colonel. It pains him to think either he has grossly offended Moran somehow, or Moran has simply turned against him. He knows that things cannot go on as they are, he must find out what exactly has gone so wrong between them even if the outcome is not good, although losing Moran as both an employee and a friend is the last thing he wants. There is no work on at present which necessitates they be in contact in a more professional capacity but he can take a day or two to go to London to visit Moran. But alas when Moriarty arrives at the Conduit Street house the Colonel is notable only by his absence. The perils of wanting to surprise someone, Moriarty thinks grimly, and settles down to await Moran's return from wherever he has gone to.

Two hours later and still there is no sign of him. No matter, Moriarty tries to tell himself, Moran was not expecting him to be here this evening after all and had no tasks to carry out tonight so he is entitled to indulge himself elsewhere. But in the back of his mind still he wonders where Moran is and, perhaps more importantly, who he is with.

With the passage of another hour without any sign of Moran's return, Moriarty has begun to pace restlessly. Occasionally he peeks through the curtains at the street, looking out for him. For a time he makes an effort to read a book but in truth takes almost nothing of it in and only very rarely turns over a page. When he hears the front door open and close again he immediately casts the book aside with an unusual level of carelessness and gets to his feet.

“Professor,” Moran says when he sees Moriarty. He has frozen like a small animal trapped in the line of sight of a predator. “I didn't know you were coming to London today.” He removes his coat and hat and hangs both of them up in the hallway.

“I...” Moriarty clears his throat. “It was merely on a whim.” Moran doesn't exactly sound thrilled to see him, he notes, and why does he seem to have such a guilty expression?

Moran glances at him, thinking the Professor is not a man usually prone to such whimsical behaviour.

“Where have you been?” Moriarty asks. He did not intend this to come out in an accusatory manner but he is sure it still manages to do so.

“Just, out.” The Professor's tone of voice seems to have got Moran's back up; automatically he becomes evasive and reticent in his answer.

“And who have you been with?” Moriarty enquires, unable to stop himself, although if there was someone it was probably a man, he thinks, since Moran doesn't have the whiff of ladies' perfume about him.

Moran narrows his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Not at all,” Moriarty replies, but seems to fail so spectacularly in infusing his voice with the necessary lightness of tone that still Moran regards him suspiciously.

“I am entitled to a life beyond workin' for you,” he says.

“Of course.”

“Yet suddenly it seems to bother you, me going out.” Up to now Moran has been all deference and strained politeness but when Moriarty seems to be taking the accusing line with him his manner changes. Now his tone is challenging, his demeanour defensive.

“Why would it bother me, that you vanish for hours, that you have your dalliances with other people?” Moriarty had intended this more as a rhetorical question. Instead it sounds more like simply a question, one he doesn't understand the answer to himself. Why _does_ it matter to him so?

Moran laughs. “Suddenly I am not permitted to have relations elsewhere?” He takes a step towards Moriarty, who regards him with a sidelong glance, his head tilted up.

“Perhaps not when one of the men you _consort_ with is a damned Scotland Yard Inspector!” Moriarty says icily. He doesn't even know where this statement comes from. He has known about that particular _dalliance_ since the beginning of Moran's employment with him but did not bring it up before. He knew the risk inherent in such behaviour but then so did Moran, and Moriarty did trust him enough to believe the Colonel would do the sensible thing and break off such relations.

Moran halts. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, you know about him then.”

“I do.”

“That was before though.”

“Before what?”

“Before... you... I mean, before I started to do any proper work for you.” Moran could claim that he broke it off with Gregson because it was the logical thing to do, that he could not possibly continue to be intimate with a police inspector when he is now a criminal employed by another criminal, but that wouldn't exactly be true. His motives for ending it were very different. “I wasn't with him tonight, Professor, I promise you.”

Moriarty still regards him disdainfully. He believes Moran, he does, but that belief doesn't change how hurt he felt – still feels even – at coming to see Moran and finding he was not here. It is irrational, illogical, and he loathes that he feels this way, but he does. “Why are you behaving this way?” he asks.

“ _Me_ behaving this way?” Moran exclaims. “Why are _you_ being like this?” Of course it makes sense to him that the Professor is controlling, domineering even. He has to be to keep people in line, to keep them loyal to him. But this seems different somehow, different to his anger towards Green and his betrayal for instance, something far less rational, far more emotional. It's the last thing Moran expected from him.

“Being like what, exactly?” Moriarty queries. “You are the one acting as if suddenly you cannot bear to even be in the same room as me!”

Moran regards him steadily for a moment. “Professor,” he says, “is this really about me living some kind of life beyond my employment with you or is it because...”

“Because what?” Moriarty asks when Moran hesitates. “Come now, Colonel, pray tell me exactly what you think this is about?”

“You knew I liked men when you employed me.”

“Indeed I did.”

“But back then, was it merely hypothetical to you? Something in my past? You thought it didn't matter? Only now when you're confronted head on with the suspicion that I've actually been with another man you realise you find such things abhorrent after all?”

Moriarty gives him such a chilly look Moran almost shrinks back half a pace. “You think I give a damn about the sex of your _paramours_? You think it makes the slightest iota of difference to me whether you _fuck_ a man or a woman?”

Moran has never heard him use such language before, ever. It seems rather shocking, coming from the Professor's mouth, yet used in such a precise, controlled manner. Still Moriarty's voice is cold, constrained, yet he seems to be practically trembling with suppressed emotions, and Moran is suddenly at a loss to understand why. If it is not about bigotry on the Professor's part then it must be about... something else.

The idea that he could be so narrow-minded that he would be somehow offended by Moran's nature, it should be laughable, but actually it is rather hurtful. Moriarty believed that Moran thought better of him than that. And it truly doesn't matter to him, not at all, whether Moran has been with a man or with a woman, in the past or tonight. What matters to him, he is rapidly coming to realise, is that Moran may tonight have been with anyone else at all.

“Sir,” Moran says, suddenly more contrite, his voice softening, sensing he has wronged the Professor in assuming some prejudice on his part but still being a long way from understanding the cause of Moriarty's behaviour. “I don't... understand why you're being like this suddenly. Almost as if you're...”

“What?” Moriarty regards him with narrowed eyes.

“Jealous,” Moran says, looking downwards.

“Nonsense.” Moriarty shakes his head from side to side.

“Then what is this about?”

“Because I came here and you were not here."

“I had no idea you were coming here today! How was I s'posed to know?”

“I know you didn't know!” Moriarty snaps. He runs a hand back over his hair. “I know, Moran,” he says, more calmly. He compresses his lips into a thin, tight line. Not knowing how else to proceed, he decides on a new line of attack, seeking some way to break this strange stalemate. “But, Colonel, I am not oblivious to how you look at me.”

Moran blushes deeply. “I do not...”

“How you stare at me when you think I won't notice, how you regard my face, my mouth, my hands, my _posterior_. Even I cannot be oblivious to the way in which you regard me, like some potential conquest!”

A look of fury flashes over Moran's face. “So what, you just came here to taunt me? Mock me? Maybe it's not the idea of me with other men generally that bothers you, maybe it's that I might just be attracted to _you_?”

“Do you deny it?”

“Does it matter if I do? You seem to 'ave made your mind up about it. Well if it concerns you so much then perhaps I should just go!” Moran makes to march away from the Professor but doesn't even make it a step away before Moriarty seizes him and shoves him back against the wooden panelling of the hallway. “What are you gonna do, kill me?” Moran sneers, apparently fearless in the face of such unexpected behaviour from the normally so composed Professor, because anger is much more familiar to him and much easier to deal with than the rest of it - his confusion, his terror, his desperate hope that the root cause of this flare up between them is what he suspects it to be.

“You truly think I would wish to do that?” Moriarty asks. His voice is soft now. One hand is against Moran's collarbone; the other he shifts to Moran's left shoulder, resting, through Moran's clothing, over the scar where the Colonel took a bullet to save his life. “Then you are a fool.” His initial movement was forceful but not brutal. His touch now though is only tender, gently resting against Moran's shoulder. He bows his head slightly.

Moran lifts his right hand and wraps it around Moriarty's wrist. Moriarty allows it to remain there. “Sir.” Moran swallows thickly. “I didn't... I didn't fuck anyone else tonight.” Because suddenly it seems to matter very much that he clarifies this. In fact all he did was go for a drink – one drink only – and then he walked, and thought, about Moriarty in fact – thinking about how badly he wanted him, in all kinds of ways. He thinks now of when they lay in bed together, so close but so far away then too. Of how awkward Moriarty seemed to be, being that close to him, and Moran was so _so_ sure that the Professor must have hated it after all; that the idea of being physically close to Moran was anathema to him. But right now he realises he does not understand anything at all, that he is certain of nothing. He has been mistaken about peoples' interest in him occasionally but never before has he felt so utterly bewildered.

Moriarty looks at him, equally uncertain. Moran desires him sexually, he has been convinced of that for some time now. He had half-expected the Colonel to make some sort of advances towards him by now – normally Moran seems so self-assured, so confident, so sexually provocative even. But he has done nothing at all with Moriarty, which has left the Professor questioning if he was incorrect in his belief after all. “You still did not deny that you are attracted to me.”

“No,” Moran agrees. “I didn't.” The Professor will not look him in the eye now, but his face is so close to Moran's. Physically, it would be so easy for him to turn Moriarty's face towards his, to kiss him on the mouth, to press their lips together, then perhaps their tongues. But there is far more than mere physical distance to consider. All this time, he has thought Moriarty must have no attraction towards him at all, that he truly is one of those men who will quite happily spend their lives celibate, utterly indifferent to Moran's desires. Was he wrong about that after all?

“Because you are?” Moriarty asks, still not meeting Moran's gaze.

“Yes sir,” Moran whispers, knowing full well if he has read this wrong right now this will end him. It is probably not arrest he has to fear, but murder. He too is trembling now, with longing, with sheer bloody terror too at having something he has craved for so long seemingly so close within his reach now, yet still having no clue if it is to be given to him or snatched away from him in an instant. Going to war was nothing like this, nothing like as terrifying as this moment in time, this one moment around which the entire rest of his life will pivot.

“Yes, it bothers me, that you desire me,” Moriarty says at last. “But not in the way you presume.”

“Why then, sir?” Moran asks. He has been around men who, upon learning that he could be even hypothetically attracted to them, have tried to attack him, but this still seems nothing like that. Moriarty's forcefulness was no attack, only some impulsive attempt to stop him walking away before the discussion was truly done.

“Because it complicates everything.”

“Only if we let it.”

Now Moriarty laughs. “It is as simple as not allowing things to become complicated, is it?” He is pressed close against Moran and he can feel Moran trembling too. “Colonel,” he says, his mouth close to Moran's ear. “Moran. Will you come to bed with me?”

Moran laughs sharply, which is probably not the right response but the invitation is so unexpected and sounds so absurd given that he was absolutely expecting to be cast out of Moriarty's life that he cannot do anything else. It is almost the reaction of a hysteric or madman. Maybe he _is_ mad though, he thinks.

“I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't mean to laugh, I just thought... you'd never... Do you mean you want us to...?”

Moriarty looks him in the eye for a moment before seizing Moran's hand and leading him into the drawing room. “We should not discuss such matters out in the hallway,” he says.

“Of course. But do you... want us to... _couple_?”

Moriarty carefully closes the door behind him. “If that is what you desire of me, yes.”

“God, yes, I desire that! But I thought you... I thought you weren't interested in any of that.” Moran's initial surprised enthusiasm begins to yield to confused hesitation. Still this situation seems so strange to him. The Professor is still not a man he can truly understand.

“As a rule, I am not.”

“So why then...?”

“Because it is different with you. Because I started to think that you did desire me so, which made me consider... if that was something I was also amenable to.”

“You make it sound so sensible.” Moran laughs again. Sensible is not a word that can always be applied to many of his past intimate encounters. Often they were reckless, done without a great deal of conscious thought or proper consideration for issues that in retrospect probably should have had a great deal of proper consideration (matters such as _does this person have a husband who will become very angry and seek to murder me if he ever discovers I have seduced his wife?_ )

“I am not like you, Moran,” Moriarty tells him.

“I think perhaps you just insulted me.” Although Moran sounds far from certain.

“Then you mistake my meaning. I mean only that... I do not - _cannot_ , I think - have feelings for you in the same way that I believe you have feelings for me.”

Moran seems to think this over for a moment. It makes sense, he realises, since he had questioned even from their first meeting whether the Professor was _sexless_. In Moran's experience, some people simply are. But then this also leads him to wonder why, if the Professor has no such desires, he would even contemplate such intimacy with Moran. “Then why do you...?”

“I still have...” Moriarty waves his hand vaguely as his gaze seems to rest very briefly upon Moran's groin. “I have certain organs, I have all those chemicals in my body, or whatever it is that makes a man have particular... biological reactions, biological urges, sometimes. They just seem to have... no focus, no direction.” He watches Moran take in this information. “Do I disappoint you?” he asks. “Did you want me to say I have long yearned for you? That I desire you above all other people in the world? Because I am afraid I don't, not intrinsically.”

“No, Professor, you don't disappoint me.” Moran takes a step back towards Moriarty again.

“Could you lie with me knowing that I do not desire you in the same way that you desire me?”

“But you must desire me in some manner, or you would not consider it, surely?”

“It is not a matter of desiring you, precisely, more that... out of everyone, you are the one person I believe I could feel comfortable with whilst I...”

“Relieve your biological urges?” Moran says. He chuckles. “Have you ever done this before?” he dares to ask.

“Several times,” Moriarty replies. “All right, two or three times.” He pauses. “Perhaps more like two and a half times,” he concedes at last.

“How'd you manage 'a half'?”

“Some of those instances... did not go well.”

“Then how'd you know it would go well with me?” Moran asks. He cannot quite believe he is effectively trying to talk the Professor out of having sex with him, but he cannot possibly go to bed with the man if he has the slightest concern about Moriarty's consent to such an action.

“I don't,” Moriarty answers simply. “But I do know that... other things feel different with you. I... trust you.”

Moran blinks, surprised by this outright admission. It's not a love confession but it is something which seems just as profound. “Professor,” he says, and presses himself closer against Moriarty. He has the start of an erection now and he is not sure how Moriarty will react to that. If even that much seems to frighten the Professor off though at least then he will know for sure that sex is not something that Moriarty is truly comfortable with.

But Moriarty does not react to it at all. He is apparently not excited by it, but he also seems unconcerned by Moran's growing physical arousal, even though he can now clearly feel it pressing against his own groin, so Moran dares to slip his arms around Moriarty, gently stroking the back of the Professor's neck with his fingers. He does not dare to kiss him though. The fact that Moriarty hasn't tried to kiss him still suggests to him that he should hold back, that he should allow the Professor to lead and to set the pace. Moriarty is seemingly not the virgin Moran had suspected he might be, nor does he exactly seem afraid of sexual intimacy as Moran had begun to fear he would be, but he needs to feel in charge of the situation, that much is very obvious to the Colonel.

“No, it doesn't bother me,” he says, “you not... liking me the way I like you. Whatever you want to do, sir, I'd like to do it with you.” This whole situation feels unreal to him, almost dreamlike.

Moriarty holds him close for a moment, before saying softly into Moran's ear, “Go upstairs then, into my bedroom.”

 


	10. All the pleasure leads to this, Devil breathing down your back

Moran glances around Moriarty's bedroom, a room he has never so much as looked in before. He has always presumed that the door is locked when Moriarty is not there but has never bothered to try the handle; it did not seem like his place to do so. In fact it wasn't locked tonight so Moran was able to do as he was bid and enter the room while the Professor has gone off... somewhere. Moran isn't actually sure where. Maybe the Professor has changed his mind, Moran thinks. Maybe he's playing some strange joke on him, although he doesn't think that seems like the Professor's style.

Since he is presently alone Moran takes a little time to look around further. It's a little larger than his own room but the décor is not much different to his own. He had expected something richer in colour perhaps, something more opulent, but then he supposes Moriarty still doesn't spend a great deal of time here. He has a little experimental bounce on the bed, finding the mattress somewhat softer than his own. The pillows too seem plumper.

“Enjoying yourself?” Moriarty enquires as he enters the room at last.

Moran stands up abruptly, as startled as if the Professor had walked in on him pleasuring himself on the bed. “I was just...”

Moriarty waves this comment away. “Take this, will you.” He holds a jug of steaming water and has a couple of clean towels draped over his arm. The jug he offers to Moran, who takes it, looking slightly bemused.

Is he expected to wash himself before they lie together? His erection seems rather too demanding to bother with that but really he wouldn't mind though, not if that's what the Professor wants or needs to make him feel more comfortable.

“Pour some of it into here,” Moriarty says. He has brought the small washstand over from the corner and he now indicates the bowl upon that. “You are a man, Moran, who appreciates physical cleanliness, I think.”

“They do say cleanliness is next to godliness,” Moran remarks as he splashes some of the hot water into the bowl, although he is not exactly sure who 'they' are. There is a bar of soap beside the bowl which has a faintly floral smell to it.

“I am not sure godliness has anything to do with what we are about to do,” Moriarty says with a thin smile, and Moran snorts softly with laughter. “I fear, Colonel, we are godless heathens.”

“Probably, sir.”

“You understand though, this act can create something of a mess.”

“It can.”

“Hence the water, and soap, and clean towels.”

“I see.”

“Do you think me foolish for this?” Moriarty asks, his tone strong and assertive, almost provocative, as if he is daring Moran to mock him.

“No sir, of course not,” Moran says. “It _can_ be messy.” That fact hasn't always bothered him overmuch, it has to be said. Despite his own appreciation of the use of soap and water, there have been plenty of times he has fallen asleep after sex still with various _fluids_ drying on him as well as on the bedsheets beneath him. But the fact the Professor treats the preparation so sensibly seems rather sweet actually.

“Well, are you going to take your clothes off then?” Moriarty asks.

“Yes sir.” Moran was rather hoping the Professor might want to kick things off properly by assisting with his undressing, but he quickly resigns himself to doing it himself.

“What do you usually do with other men?” Moriarty asks him as he removes his own tie.

Moran shrugs. “Kind of depends on the occasion, you know.” And the man in question, he doesn't say, but he would not let most men enter him – the fact is he doesn't trust most of them enough to have his back to them and the intimacy that would be involved in being face to face with them is not something he's ready for with most of them. But he cannot help thinking about his fantasies regarding the Professor, how they usually seem to involve Moriarty taking him, never the other way around. “Various things,” he says. “Professor, those 'two and half times'... was that with men or women?”

“Always with men,” Moriarty replies. He begins to unlace his own shoes. “I am seemingly more comfortable around my own sex when it comes to such... let us call them _experiments_ , if you will.”

Moran is rather relieved to have this confirmed, even though he has some concerns about why precisely some of those encounters did not go well. But at least the Professor has some experience with male partners. Moran's own exploits have involved men, women and one or two who might well fit in the 'other' category so it would hardly concern him had Moriarty been with women too, but if the Professor's experiences had solely been with women this might have made things more difficult now. Moran has guided plenty of inexperienced partners through various sexual acts before and could do so again now if needs be, but his instinct with the Professor is to slip into a more submissive role, something that would seem to conflict with having to teach and guide him during their first sexual encounter.

“Am I to be your next test subject then, sir?” he asks, grinning.

“It seems so. Come here.” Shoes off and neatly set aside, Moriarty reaches out and draws Moran towards him. “If you're sure.”

“I feel I should be asking you that.”

“I am sure, Moran, but I need to be certain that you are. I am your employer after all. I do not want you to feel as if you are obligated to pleasure me.”

“God no,” Moran says. “No sir, I don't feel _obligated_.” He laughs again as he reaches up to unbutton Moriarty's waistcoat. “May I kiss you?” he asks. He almost looks shy as he asks this.

“I'd prefer it if you didn't,” Moriarty replies. He cannot really explain his aversion to the idea. He has nothing particular against the notion of pressing his lips against Moran's, though he doubts he will get anything from it, but somehow the act seems as if it would imply a level of intimacy between them he is not comfortable with. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.” Moran accepts this with good grace. “Whatever you want, sir.”

“Well, what do _you_ want to do with me?” Moriarty enquires.

“Shouldn't I be askin' you that, sir?”

“I'm asking you.”

In the face of this Moran lets go, as much as he is able anyway, of his inhibitions, of his doubts, his fears and simply admits to it. “I'd like you to fuck me,” he says. “I'd like... to feel you inside me, if that's... if that's what you're comfortable doing, I mean.”

If anything Moriarty looks relieved. In truth he _is_ relieved that Moran doesn't expect or seem to want to penetrate him during their first time together. He is vaguely curious about what it would feel like to have Moran inside him but if he ever does allow that that would be for a much later time. “I'm comfortable with that.”

“We don't have to though,” Moran assures him. “If you're not... I mean, there are other things we can do.”

“I want to.” Moriarty does start to unbutton Moran's clothing, stripping him bare piece by piece, since Moran does seem to be taking rather a long time about it. “So long as you are willing.”

“I already said I-”

“I meant that particular act in that particular way. It strikes me that you are far more used to taking the _active_ role.”

“Yes sir, but...” Moran thinks of his rarer forays into allowing other men to enter him. He thinks also of Kitty and a rather interesting device she has put to very pleasant use with him from time to time too. “I've done it this way enough times.” And in truth he can't imagine it happening any other way with Moriarty right now, somehow nothing else would seem fitting.

Moran would like to do the same to the Professor, remove his clothing, but when he tries to begin removing Moriarty's shirt, Moriarty puts a hand on his arm, not forcefully, but firmly. “I'd prefer to keep my shirt on.”

“Won't that make it uncomfortable?”

“I'd be more uncomfortable without it.” Moriarty cannot explain properly to Moran why; he doesn't think Moran would understand it. He speaks not of physical discomfort but in more abstract terms. Nudity does not vex him, though there are precious few people he has ever been naked in front of in any context. But it is the sense of the total loss of control that removing every piece of his clothing right now would imply. He is not ready to give that up yet, not even with a man he trusts as much as Moran.

“It's all right.” Moran smiles warmly at him and drops his hands to unbutton Moriarty's trousers instead. “I think I understand it. Whatever you're happy with, sir, it's all right.”

Moriarty is grateful for Moran's kindness; even more grateful for the manner in which he addresses him still as 'sir'. Cocksure, vastly experienced and usually dominant in bed, still the Colonel seems to have slipped naturally into a more submissive role with him and that reassures him somehow.

Naked, Moran looks smaller than Moriarty expected, even though the clothes he wears are hardly bulky. Whilst he is lean and wiry in build and a little shorter than the Professor, something about his manner now though makes him seem to be even smaller. The way in which Moriarty regards his naked form though seems oddly detached, lacking the heat and the intensity and the raw _hunger_ that Moran usually sees in the eyes of most of his partners. But it is not cold, not really, just simply not interested in Moran's physical characteristics in the same way that most of those people were.

Of course Moran's body does interest Moriarty very much, because it is Moran, because all those marks upon his skin – the freckles, the scars, the tattooed crest on his arm – are all a part of him and may reveal so much about him and his past. When it comes to his more intimate parts, well, from what Moriarty can tell from seeing a limited number of other men nude, his prick seems to be nothing to be ashamed of, and that it seems to be hardening again in response to Moriarty's presence feels rather flattering actually. He is well aware that Moran has probably had the same reaction to countless other people as well as to random stimuli but at least it suggests to him that so far he has done nothing to put Moran off being interested in him. But he cannot say that it interests him in any more specific way – he is more interested in Moran's face, his expressions, the sounds he makes. Moran would seem to like him to touch it though so more out of a sense of curiosity about Moran's response than anything else, Moriarty wraps his hand around Moran's prick and gently closes his fingers around the shaft.

“God, sir,” Moran says. The Professor's hand is warm and strong and even not doing very much at all, it feels so good to simply be touched in this way. Then Moriarty moves his hand, stroking downwards, and Moran seems to melt against him, hissing against his neck. “Sir, please,” he says.

“Please what?” Moriarty asks. He does not mean for it to come out in such a peremptory and provocative manner but it seems he cannot help himself. As Moran has slipped into the submissive role, so the Professor is assuming the dominant one.

“Please...” Moran looks up at him and his eyes look strangely dark, pupils wide. “Can I... can I touch you too, sir?”

“You may.”

Given permission, Moran undoes Moriarty's trousers the rest of the way and slips his hand inside, beneath the layers of clothing, to caress the Professor's cock. He is still soft, nowhere near physically aroused in that manner, and Moran looks up at him questioningly, seeking reconfirmation of consent.

Almost imperceptibly, Moriarty nods. “You can take off my trousers and drawers if that would make things easier,” he says.

So it is not exposing that part of his body that troubles him, Moran realises. He just seems to need to retain some clothing in order to feel he is still in control of something that is often somewhat uncontrollable, something which by its nature requires a certain loss of control in order to feel good. It's not the first time Moran has been in such a situation – sometimes his partners and indeed Moran himself have retained some clothing during sex simply because of the practicalities or the time constraints of the situation but sometimes someone has seemed to have other reasons for keeping their clothes on.

He doesn't need to be invited twice in order to undress the Professor further, nudging him back against the bed in order to be able to more easily remove clothing. Moriarty's skin is pale, paler than his own, and the hair on his body, the curls of it between his legs, is of a more red shade than Moran's.

“You're beautiful,” Moran says, practically blurting this out. Because the Professor is, to him, infinitely desirable.

Moriarty laughs. “You need not flatter me.”

“It ain't flattery, sir.” Moran decides not to comment on any particular part of Moriarty's body, sensing that the Professor would not care for such things and that it's a matter of total irrelevance to him how his prick, for instance, compares to others Moran has seen (though in Moran's opinion certainly its size is impressive enough, a little shorter than his own but thicker, and thankfully now it is becoming even more _impressive_ as Moran carefully strokes it). But the Professor smiles at Moran's more general praise, seemingly both amused and pleased by it. Probably, Moran suspects, no one before has ever called him _beautiful_ in his entire life.

“Get up on the bed, on all fours,” Moriarty instructs at last.

Moran obeys him but then turns around to glance at him questioningly. “Do you...” He hesitates. He doesn't want to sound rude, but it's probably very important that he gets a satisfactory answer. “Do you... know what to do?” Because in theory the act they're about to engage in probably sounds so simple but in reality without proper care it's easy to mess this up, and the human body can be annoyingly fragile if one does mess things up.

“I have done it before.” Moriarty points out, opening a drawer in the bedside table.

“Two and a half times?” Moran says.

“Two and a half times.” Moriarty smiles. “And I assure you, just because they did not all end particularly well, that does not mean their failure was down to a lack of care or preparation on my part.”

Moran watches Moriarty remove a corked glass bottle from the bedside drawer, oil of some sort. How long has that been in there, he wonders, for many months or years even, or is it a more recent thing that the Professor procured only after employing him? Somehow he cannot imagine the Professor using the stuff only to relieve himself; in fact he finds it almost impossible to imagine Moriarty relieving himself at all.

“No, I did not purchase this specifically with you in mind,” Moriarty tells him. “I simply find it wise to prepare for all eventualities.”

“How did you...?”

“From time to time you are very easy to read.”

“I think I should feel insulted again.”

“Don't be. It is not a bad thing. In fact in situations like this it is probably a very good thing.” Moriarty rests a hand against the small of Moran's back, warm, heavy. Moran flinches, very slightly, but the Professor rubs slow circles against his skin until he relaxes. “It is not too late, Moran, to back out.”

“Is that your way of saying you want to stop this?”

“Not at all. I am simply making sure.” He can feel Moran practically vibrating under his touch. It is probably with arousal, with frustration even at things not progressing as quickly as he might like, but it's good to be certain that it isn't fear.

“I'm sure,” Moran says. “I'm more than sure, I'm bloody... I'm gonna go off anyway if you don't fuck me soon.” He laughs, but he is probably only half-joking. This situation is so strange, so oddly formal, but he cannot even remember the last time he felt this turned on by anything or anyone.

“Very well then.” With a wry smile, Moriarty pulls the cork from the bottle and tips a little of the oil onto his hand, coating his fingers. “I thought that you might... That is to say, I rather expected you to make advances towards me before now,” he tells Moran as he slides his fingers gently between Moran's buttocks. Achieving no negative reaction to this, very slowly, very carefully he eases one oiled finger inside Moran.

“I didn't think you'd... _ah_... want me to. I thought... _Christ!_ ” Moran hisses as Moriarty eases in further, tortuously slowly, exquisitely pleasurably. “I thought if you were interested in me you'd... you would...” He forgets what he is trying to say, panting, overcome by the physical sensations of the Professor slowly opening him up. He is... surprisingly good at this. Although actually probably it's not that surprising, Moriarty is probably _exactly_ the kind of man who has read up on, well, most likely not the works of fiction Moran has been known to glance through from time to time; scientific literature maybe, finding out how the human male body works internally and externally. The idea of the Professor actually _studying_ something like this makes Moran, absurdly, want to laugh.

“What's so amusing?” Moriarty enquires.

“Just... thinkin' about you studying this, how to do it.”

“That amuses you?”

“Just the thought of how different that is to the way I approached sex early on,” Moran explains. He hopes he hasn't offended Moriarty somehow.

“I suppose our approaches _are_ somewhat different,” Moriarty says. His serious expression changes to a smile a second later. He is not offended at all by Moran's remarks. “I was reluctant to make advances to you sooner myself in case I had misread your intentions towards me, or lest you did feel pressured to lie with me due to being in my employment,” he says.

“I _see_.” Moran's voice comes out oddly strangled on the second word here, because of course he has the Professor's fingers up his arse and Moriarty has just twisted them in a particularly clever way. He cannot keep from thinking that things should be the other way around – not in regards to the act itself but in attitude. Surely Moriarty should be the one less certain about this and Moran should be the one questioning if this is truly what he wants? But life rarely has a tendency to work out as one expects it to, in Moran's experience. Although he can understand Moriarty's concerns. The Professor _is_ his employer and there are some employers who would push their employees into acts they truly do not want.

“Does that hurt?” Moriarty asks him as Moran makes another strange, almost animal sound. He is watching Moran all the while, genuinely curious, observing Moran's reactions, making Moran feel a little like some specimen in a cage in a laboratory being peered at by some cold-blooded vivisectionist. Strangely this thought does not manage to quell his erection, only make it stronger.

“ _No!_ ” Moran squeaks. It isn't pain, exactly, more of an odd sort of burn, but not a bad one. A pleasant feeling of being stretched, a strong tingle, nothing worse, and if anything Moriarty is being far more thorough and gentle in preparing him than almost anyone else who has done this has ever been, including Moran himself. He is always patient and careful with preparing others but the Colonel would have to admit he has a tendency to rush the preparation if he has to do it to himself (what can he say except that he is easily bored by that?) and in consequence some of his past acts have been more painful than they needed to be – not that that has actually ever managed to put him off it.

“I would not want to hurt you,” Moriarty tells him.

“Wouldn't mind if you did a bit,” Moran blurts out, then blushes at this unintended admission. _Christ, I really am a deviant_ , he thinks.

“That is very good to know,” Moriarty says, and when Moran glances back at him his expression is strange, unreadable. Perhaps he is filing this information away for future consideration.

He withdraws his fingers at last and washes his hands carefully before drying them on one of the towels. The other he has placed underneath Moran, another eminently sensible precaution that would never have occurred to the Colonel to do.

“Please, sir...” Moran says. He is not used to begging, not at all, but god he needs this and he has waited for and fantasised about this for so long and the fact that Moriarty is now just fastidiously _washing his damned hands_....

“Shhh, all in good time, my dear Colonel.” Moriarty says, and pours out a little more of the oil, using this to coat his cock.

When Moriarty pushes inside him the noise Moran makes barely even sounds human. With the Professor's relative lack of experience some might expect him to be hesitant, tentative in his behaviour, but somehow Moran expects him to be much more forceful, and he is. His movements are rough, assertive, not brutal or inelegant, but he is certainly not timid about it, which truly is exactly how Moran wants it right now. He _wants_ the Professor to take him roughly, to make him feel like he is dominated and owned completely, as he is, in body and soul. He slides into Moran with relative ease and Moran groans thickly again. There is still that inevitable moment of not-quite-but-almost-panic, that feeling of being totally unable to take this and the clamouring thought that _that is never going to fit into me_ – Moran has done this a number of times but not so many times or so frequently as yet that he still doesn't get that feeling anew each time. But it passes, he knows that it always does, and very quickly he is reacting more sensibly, less like a frightened animal, more like the vastly experienced man that he is.

There is pressure and that incredible feeling of being stretched and filled with the Professor's thick cock, a feeling that teeters precariously between pleasure and pain. Moran's hands fist into the bedclothes, crumpling them. “ _God_ ,” he breathes.

Moriarty smirks, regarding Moran with a raised eyebrow. “Not quite,” he says. “In fact some might even accuse me of being the devil himself.”

For some reason Moran finds this idea even more arousing, but then he was never some good little Christian boy.

Moran is so warm inside, Moriarty thinks, and tight, but not in the same way as his previous encounters. Of course there is some tension, some resistance, due to the fact that this is a passage that was never intended to be entered, but his slide into the Colonel seems far easier than during those past times. He is sure his past _experiments_ did not involve unwilling participants but perhaps it was the lack of attachment between them that made things so difficult. On some occasions Moriarty just could not go through with it at all. On another occasion the sensations became too much - too much tightness, too much pressure, just too much intensity all round - and he had to withdraw way before he even got close to finishing. But with Moran it feels... good, it's nice, and the noises Moran is making and the fact that his prick is still fiercely hard would seem to indicate he is enjoying it very much also. Moriarty grips Moran's hips tightly in order to draw Moran's backside closer against his own groin, so he can press a little further inside him, angling his thrusts just so, and Moran practically whimpers. Ah, so _there_ is that gland inside him, Moriarty notes, thrusting up against it once more, drawing another low moan out of the Colonel. He is so beautifully responsive to that.

“You like this?” he asks. “Being taken like this?”

Moran glances back over his shoulder, laughs. “I like anything, sir.” Which is probably not strictly true, there are no doubt some rather recherché sexual acts practised by people in some of those clandestine brothels dotted about the city which Moran has never tried and probably wouldn't enjoy if he did, but he has done a great deal of different things with a great many people and had a lot of fun in the process.

Moriarty seems to file this thought away too for future consideration.

“When did another man last take you like this?” he asks, and Moran laughs again, sharper, more scathing now.

“I don't know!” How is he supposed to remember anything when his employer's cock is up his arse?

And then Moriarty stills for a moment, stops thrusting into him, and he reaches around and grips Moran's face. “How long, Moran?” he asks, turning Moran's face towards his.

“Another man?” Moran says. His slightly unfocused gaze flicks off to the side, trying to remember. “Quite a few months, I don't know, a year maybe.”

Moriarty remains very still, his face bearing an expression of concentration. “Why did you answer it like that?” he enquires. “ _'Another man'_? Surely a woman could not...” Although he seems to be considering the possibilities even now.

“I, ah... can we just get on with this, please, sir? I need...”

“Answer my question, Sebastian.”

And Moran can do nothing but that, because Moriarty's patient but firm tone particularly as he says Moran's given name will always manage to draw the answer out of him, along with making his cock twitch. “Kitty and I... we have... once or twice... she has... used a certain... _device_... strapped on herself, upon me.” He peeps back at Moriarty, expecting him to be disgusted by this idea maybe, or to find it hilarious in a mocking manner that Moran thinks he could not bear.

But Moriarty only looks thoughtful. “How ingenious,” he says.

Moran blinks. “You don't... mind?”

“What is there to mind? What difference could it make to me whether you have had some phallus of flesh and blood inside you or one of... wood, I would presume? Or rubber perhaps?”

“Wood, yes.” Moran turns his face away. He doesn't exactly know what the fundamental difference is, only that there are certainly men who would think the very idea of letting a woman do that to a man shameful and that any man who allows such an act to be done to him by a _female_ must be very unmanly indeed, perhaps even worse than those _inverts_ who allow other men to sodomise them. “I don't know what... Sir, can we... not discuss this now?” He doesn't know if it's something he'd be happy to discuss with the Professor later either, but it's almost as if Moriarty has forgotten they are _fucking_. Moran though is all too aware that he has a raging cockstand himself and a prick up his backside which at present is doing very little.

“Of course.” Moriarty resumes his thrusting and Moran gasps, part at the sensations this creates within him again, part in sheer bloody relief at the Professor finally starting to do something again. Quickly his thrusts become rougher, more aggressive, his body slapping against Moran's skin with each push into him. For a time his rhythm is fairly regular, urgent but steady, but then it becomes more erratic, as he strives to reach the pinnacle of his pleasure.

Beneath him Moran arches up, almost cat-like, letting out near-soundless gasps as Moriarty keeps on slamming into him. He reaches back without too much thought to grab his own cock, but the Professor abruptly bats his hand away. He takes Moran's arousal in hand himself and pumps him firmly, until his fingers clench hard around Moran's prick and he goes very still for a moment, very tense. He bites down onto Moran's shoulder as he spills deep inside him.

“Professor, please!” Moran says as Moriarty pulls out of him, but even now the Professor's hand is still wrapped around Moran's length and he strokes him once, twice, thrice - quick, rough strokes, until Moran too comes with a low groan, spurting onto the towel beneath him.

 


	11. It's a dangerous game we're playing

Moran collapses forward onto the bed, trembling. Moriarty rolls over onto his back, landing beside Moran. He looks equally breathless, though not quite as dishevelled – his hair is still much less wild than Moran's but his shirt sticks to him in places with sweat (and Moran thinks, strangely, of what whoever has to launder the shirt will make of this).

Moriarty takes a deep breath, getting his breathing and pulse rates back under control. He glances over at Moran who watches him still, panting.

“Thank you,” Moriarty says, and Moran laughs.

“You don't need to thank me.”

“It would seem impolite not to do so, when you have so efficiently helped me to... relieve myself.”

“You don't need to make it sound so _formal_.” Truly this seems like one of the least formal things they could ever do together. Moran brushes his hand over his face, pushing his tousled hair back off his forehead. “Anyway, that makes it sound like I did it from purely selfless motives.” He grins.

Moriarty smiles as he slides off the bed and stands up. “Was I adequate then?”

“More than adequate, sir.”

“You have far more experience than I do. I'm not sure that I want to know how I compare to some of your past partners.”

“That's a shame Professor, cos you were good, bloody great actually.”

“That's good to know.”

Does the Professor actually blush? It's hard to tell in the low light of the room, but Moran thinks he might have just done so.

“We'd best get cleaned up,” Moriarty says. “And since you were the one who made the most mess on it, you had better work out what to do with that.” He gestures towards the now soiled towel on the bed.

“Right sir.” Moran senses he is to be sent away shortly. There is to be no post-coital cuddling, certainly no sleeping together afterwards, but it's all right. He's rather come to expect that and though he wouldn't mind staying with the Professor for a while longer, it's early days yet. Maybe something more will come with time. That is, if there is to be a repeat of this. He rolls over and picks up the towel. Since it's already spoilt anyway he uses it to wipe the worst of the mess off himself. “Sir,” he says, folding the towel so that the _evidence_ is on the inside. “Is this...” He clears his throat. “Is this to be a one-off event or something we shall try again?”

“I would have thought the latter, don't you?” Moriarty answers. “Unless of course the risk it involves seems too great for you.” He says this with an ironic smile and a raised eyebrow. Of course there is a great risk involved with such activities, even when they are discreet and Moriarty is sure he has hired servants who can be trusted to mind their own business when it comes to their private activities. But Moriarty is hardly a man to be concerned about the legality or illegality of an action.

Moran laughs again. “Please,” he scoffs, “the risk only makes it more interesting.”

“So you'd like to try it again?”

“Yes, Professor, I'd like that.” Moran stoops to begin retrieving his clothing, trying to conceal his broad smile.

“Moran,” Moriarty says after a moment or two. “You and Miss Winter...”

Moran suddenly recollects his mid-coitus confession about some of the things he and Kitty have got up to in the past and is suddenly convinced Moriarty means to now ridicule him for that. He straightens up slowly, his trousers draped over his arm.

“What exactly is the nature of your relationship with her now?” is all the Professor actually says.

“We're friends. We haven't... done anything like this for a while.”

“Well then.” Moriarty seems to think about this for a second. “If you and I are to make a habit of this, then I'd prefer it if you continued to keep your relationship with Miss Winter strictly platonic.”

Moran had almost expected some rather more strict conditions than this, maybe even the Professor telling him he would rather Moran didn't see Kitty at all. He is not sure then what to make of this, whether Moriarty's apparent indifference to his friendship with Kitty means he doesn't truly care that much for Moran. Or... that he actually does care for Moran and understands that cutting him off from one of his few friends would be unreasonable. Whichever it is, the request itself seems acceptable. “Of course, Professor.”

“Now shoo, go and get cleaned up,” Moriarty says, and Moran is effectively dismissed from his presence.

~

Moran sleeps peacefully that night, truly untroubled for the first time in a long while. He would have preferred sleeping with the Professor, but he doesn't mind that he's in his own bed and alone. He feels pleasantly sated and he is aware that anything more is probably far too much for Moriarty to deal with as yet. Maybe it's a little too much even for Moran yet.

Moriarty too sleeps soundly, feeling far more relaxed now. Come morning when he sees Moran seated at the breakfast table he wonders what the appropriate behaviour is now that they have been sexually intimate. Going to sleep under the same roof and going to breakfast with them the next morning are not things he has done with the participants in his past _experiments_.

Moran looks happy to see him, he notices, unable to quite suppress his pleasure at seeing the Professor again. It is a very different Moran to the one who has been almost shunning him, avoiding eye contact, flinching away from his touches.

“Professor,” he says, getting to his feet as soon as Moriarty enters the room.

“Sit down, Moran, please.” Moriarty slips into his own seat.

Moran sits again. “You all right, sir?” he asks.

“Perfectly fine. And you?”

“I'm very well, sir.” Moran grins at him, and Moriarty smiles.

“I should probably return to the university shortly,” he remarks later, after consuming his bacon and eggs.

“Right sir,” Moran says. He had rather hoped they might spend more time together, maybe not in bed as he would prefer, but at least being in each other's company for a while. But then the Professor is probably not that sort of man, nor does Moran want to somehow invalidate the significance of what happened between them last night by pushing for even more far too soon. Moriarty's desire to leave London so quickly though does raise some other concerns in his mind. “Sir, that's not... because you regret what we did, is it?”

“Not at all.”

“Because if you didn't really enjoy it I'd never expect you to-”

“I enjoyed it, Moran,” Moriarty interrupts him. “Truly, and we shall certainly do it again sometime, if you are willing.”

“Course I'm willing.”

Gaze slightly lowered, Moriarty smiles again. He is pleased with the change in Moran's demeanour, and pleased too that the Colonel remains interested in him. Perhaps he displayed a level of self-confidence last night that deep down he did not quite feel, for he is still fairly inexperienced with sex, particularly when compared to Moran. And Moran _is_ younger than him and likely still can have his pick of countless other men or women. Moriarty though finds it hard to believe most people would consider that he is desirable (his money maybe, but not _him_ ), but it seems that Moran wanted him before last night and still wants him now. It is good to know that despite his own inclinations, or lack of them, and his inexperience he has not managed yet to put Moran off him.

“I'm glad,” he says, and truly he is. He is even more glad too when, upon leaving the room shortly after this, he briefly rests his hand on Moran's shoulder, and this time Moran doesn't flinch.

~

“Where've you been hiding yourself?” Kitty enquires, holding out her arm for him to take.

Moran links his arm through hers, allowing her to lead him through the entrance into the park. “Nowhere,” he says. “I just... had things to do.”

“Thought maybe you'd bloody well got yourself shot again or something.” A passing couple, overhearing her words, both glare at her. “Yeah, something you wanted?” she challenges, and the pair scurry away.

“No, not shot,” he says. “It's just... there have been one or two developments, with me and the Professor.”

“Oh?” She halts and turns to face him. “Seb Moran, you've bedded 'im?”

“Christ, advertise it to the whole bleedin' world why don't you?” Moran laughs.

“There's no-one around, they all cleared off when they saw me; too common for these parts, me.” She peers intently at his face. “You 'ave though.”

“Aye.” He smiles. “Do you...? You don't mind?”

“Mind? I'm bloody thrilled for you! About bloody time you stopped moping about and actually did something much more enjoyable.” A grin lights up her face. She slaps him affectionately on the arm. “Good fun, was it?”

“Very good.” He slips his arm back through hers and they walk onwards across the grass. “You were right, you know,” he admits.

“Course I was,” she says. “'Bout what exactly though?”

“That he was confused, and that he didn't want me feeling pressured to... to go to bed with him.”

“Told you. See, I ain't just a pretty face.”

“No,” Moran agrees. “You're not.” He draws her to a halt again.

“We walkin' or what?” she enquires.

“Kitty, I...” He reaches across and takes her hands in his. Her hands seem so fine compared to his own, compared to the Professor's too. Even her gloves of the thinnest leather seem delicate compared to his own dark suede ones. “I don't know where things are going between me and the Professor.” Although he knows where he _wants_ it to go right enough, but the Professor's feelings on the matter are still largely obscured by shadow to Moran. Moriarty clearly does have some physical urges and a willingness to sate them with Moran but is there any hope of anything more than that? Moran has no real idea. “I still don't really know... how he feels about me. But you and me... We can't do what we used to, but I still want us to be friends no matter what, if that's what you want.”

“Course I do.” She withdraws her left hand from his and puts it to his face. “Seb, you're a dear friend, always will be I reckon.”

“I will.”

“Does he know about me?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He doesn't seem concerned by my friendship with you.”

“Well, that's a good sign,” Kitty says. “I can't abide those men who think they can dictate who you can and cannot be friends with.”

“I hope it is,” Moran says. “A good sign, I mean.”

Finally Kitty drops her hand down. “I'm pleased for you, Seb,” she says. “Truly. I hope things between you and 'im work out the way you'd like 'em to.”

“Thank you.” He lifts her left hand and gently kisses it. “It means a lot to me to have your blessin'.”

“Don't make it so sound so formal.” She laughs, her golden-brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “Come on then, I ain't standin' about here all day.” She takes his arm again, leading him onwards across the park. “So then,” she says a little way further along. “Tell me, how big's his pego then?”

“For God's sake, Kit.” Moran laughs, as much with relief as anything else, glad that Kitty has been accepting and supportive of his interest in Moriarty all along.

It's still infuriating that she was right about the Professor though, he thinks. She never will let him forget that.

 


	12. I'm in over my head, I can't catch my breath

Moran does still wonder, despite what Moriarty said at the time and his later assurances, whether if what happened between them that night was a one-off, a never to be repeated act. They have met each other repeatedly since then but no further mention has been made of what occurred by Moriarty and thus Moran feels that the Professor's silence makes him unable to raise the issue either. Maybe with more time to consider things, the Professor regrets it, Moran thinks. Maybe he has realised what a dreadful mistake it was. Maybe he didn't enjoy it much after all. Maybe he believes that he has crossed some line with his employee, a line that never should have been crossed. As such he probably wants to forget all about it, act like it never happened, and ensure there is no repeat of such a thing.

He is forced to drastically revise this thought when a little over two weeks later Moriarty summons him to the house where Moran spent much of his time recuperating from his gunshot wound, and within an hour of arriving he finds himself bent over the bed being very vigorously buggered by the Professor.

Afterwards, while Moriarty washes himself behind a panelled screen in the corner, Moran says, “What is my job title now, exactly, sir?”

“Exactly?” Moriarty muses. Water splashes as he wrings out the cloth he has been using. “Perhaps it is hard to pin down _exactly_.” Which seems odd for him, a man who, despite the seemingly chaotic nature of some of the things surrounding him, the books which appear to be kept in no particular order for instance, seems to like many things to be neat and precise. Such ambiguity and blurring of the lines seems somehow fitting for them however, two men who straddle two very different worlds, one of propriety and respectability, the other a criminal one, one far less proper where they are respected by some, certainly, but more because those people know that a lack of proper respect for the Professor and the Colonel may lead to their life being abruptly cut short.

“I s'pose I'm your assassin.”

“I suppose you are.” Moriarty's mouth quirks into a wry smile. “And a very good one too.”

Moriarty doesn't see this from his position, but Moran still flushes with pleasure at these words.

“Your... personal secretary?” he suggests, thinking of some of the rather more trivial tasks he has carried out for the Professor. Perhaps something like 'odd job man' might be more fitting though. He has taken letters to be posted for him and gone and looked up details such as shipping timetables for him. One day he was sent off to collect a suit that had been sent to Moriarty's tailor to be altered. Another man might feel offended by being given such jobs to do, but he likes doing things for the Professor and he enjoys the sense of responsibility even such relatively minor tasks provide.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Your concubine?” Moran says, laughing.

“Concubine.” Moriarty seems to consider the word seriously. “Something like that, yes.”

Moran is about to point out that he was only joking, then changes his mind. There are far worse things he could be called than that, he decides.

Of course there is another word he would very much like to be called by Moriarty, but that seems unlikely. Whatever the Professor feels for him, it probably is not sufficient for him to be able to ever regard Moran that way. Moriarty clearly does value him highly, but still there is always something oddly formal about their arrangement, despite the nature of what they do together in private. But still Moran cannot help but hope and dream that one day, eventually, the Professor might refer to him as his _husband_.

~

Ten days after his last intimate encounter with the Professor, Moran is sitting in a rather dimly lit pub called The Nag's Head which has a sign outside featuring a horse with an expression probably only seen on some poor beast awaiting its fate in the knacker's yard. Porter is seated opposite him at the tiny rickety wooden table which Moran is rather afraid to allow any part of his body or clothing to come into contact with, it being suspiciously sticky. The Colonel is still not sure how this came to be, how he allowed himself to gain Porter as a companion tonight, but the man seems to be very difficult to get rid of once he's latched onto someone. Now he is telling Moran some winding and, alas, seemingly endless anecdote about a man and a couple of ferrets, or attempting to anyway; when he gets to part of it he seems to find especially amusing he becomes unable to tell the rest of the story due to laughing too hard.

Mercifully Moran is spared the remainder of the story when a boy of about ten or so winds his way through the pub, dodging its patrons and weaving around a variety of equally rickety, likely equally sticky tables until he stops by Moran's side.

“Professor wants to see ya back at the 'ouse,” he announces.

“Does he now.” Moran drains the last of his scotch, which he would have to admit is rather decent and doesn't seem to be too watered down (Porter's doing, apparently; already every pub owner in the area has been warned that they do not give the Colonel the stuff that's barely one step up from paint stripper and they don't water down his drinks. Moran still wonders exactly what Porter has threatened them with if they do; perhaps though he simply bores them into acquiescence with his rambling anecdotes). “Well, I'll be along shortly then,” he says, waving the boy away.

“You've been summoned by the master,” Porter says, still laughing, as the boy vanishes, weaving and ducking back the way he came. “Rather you than me.”

“Probably has a job on,” Moran says, picking his hat up out of his lap and standing up.

“Or something else in mind.” Porter says this with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows.

Moran sits down again and looks straight into Porter's dark eyes. “What d'you mean?”

“I ain't a fool, Colonel. I know you like your bread buttered both sides, so to speak, and 'e... well I don't rightly know still _what_ 'e is, sometimes I suspect that old cove is barely even 'uman, but whatever 'e is it's probably closer to being a Mary Ann than anything else, and it's clear to me 'e's taken a shine to you.”

“Is it now,” Moran says thoughtfully. All that time he had been so confused over Moriarty's thoughts about him and apparently it turns out he could simply have just asked Porter what he made of the situation. Hell would freeze over before he ever asked the man about any personal matter though.

Porter takes a swallow of the rather vile drink which bears the same name as him. “I ain't judging you by the way.”

“Thanks,” Moran says scathingly.

“Ain't none of my business what the two of you do.”

“You're right, it ain't.”

“I've offended you now. Me and my big mouth.” Porter raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Oh, hey,” he says as Moran stands up again. “I never finished tellin' you about them ferrets!” He starts laughing again at the recollection of the animals.

“Another time,” Moran says. “The Professor calls.”

~

“Professor?” Moran says when he enters the house.

“Up here.” Moriarty's voice comes from upstairs. “Come on up.”

Moran puts his hat and coat on their appropriate pegs before strolling up the stairs towards the Professor's bedroom. The door is half open and he pushes through it to find the Professor standing by the window. He is dressed in his shirt and trousers but nothing else.

“Come here, my boy,” he says, turning to regard Moran.

Closing and locking the door behind him, Moran advances towards him. He remembers so strongly someone else using those same words, only then it was in a very different way, when he was about to be caned after answering back one of his teachers. This way is far, far more pleasant.

“Are you willing tonight?” Moriarty asks. Always that odd formality, as if they're conducting some kind of business deal.

“Yes sir, of course.” When is he not, Moran thinks. He finds it hard to imagine not being in the mood for sex whenever the Professor requests it. He wonders why the Professor wants it specifically right now though. Moriarty's moods are sometimes strange things, mercurial, often unreadable even to Moran. If something riles him up though he has apparently found that sex is a good way to get any negative feelings out of his system and restore his mental equilibrium, but he tends not to like to talk about these things too much.

“Very good. Get undressed then.”

“Sir, do you know... Porter knows about us... doing this,” Moran says as he starts to remove his clothes. If he expects Moriarty to show surprise or concern over this, he is mistaken.

“Porter knows a great many things,” Moriarty remarks calmly. “Much of which he likely does not need to know. That particular piece of information though.... he is not going to tell anyone of that.” It's strange perhaps, but in a different way Moriarty trusts the odd little man as much as he trusts Moran. “His only concern in that regard is that I will not expect _him_ to provide me with the sort of services you have been providing me with.”

“Christ, that's not an image I needed,” Moran says, laughing as he kicks off his boots.

A few minutes later and Moriarty is taking him, bent over the bed, one hand pressed to the back of Moran's neck to pin him down. The Professor is still dressed in his shirt, of course, the fabric clinging to him in places. It is as oddly detached as other times, strangely distant despite their physical closeness right now, and Moran still wonders how the Professor manages that, manages to retain any semblance of control even as he comes.

When he does climax, Moriarty slumps against Moran's back for only the briefest amount of time before he pulls out. Moran though is not quite there yet, close, but not close enough, and for a moment he is convinced that for the first time the Professor means to leave him physically unsatisfied, as Moriarty's hand drops away from his cock. And then the Professor's hand is on his shoulder instead, turning him over onto his back, pushing him down.

“Sir?” Moran says breathlessly, confused, because they have never been face to face before during this, Moriarty has never seemed to _want_ to be face to face with him before, and God, it's so _intense_.

“Come for me, Moran,” Moriarty says, grasping Moran's prick once more, stroking it upwards, and almost reflexively Moran does, groaning as he spills over the Professor's fingers.

“Good boy,” the Professor says softly, smiling in that benevolent and infuriating way of his, and even though Moriarty pulls away from him his words cause a feeling of warmth and pleasure to surge through Moran that has nothing very much to do with his orgasm.

~

Moran had rather expected things would change a lot more after they had begun this arrangement though, where from time to time the Professor essentially summons Moran to his bed. Moriarty is no less friendly to him than before but nor really does this seem to have brought them closer in any more _romantic_ sense. The Professor has seemed to so detach himself so thoroughly from the sexual act that it feels at times as if nothing of any significance has occurred between them. It isn't even as if he is unkind – he never is, he is never too rough, too careless; he is always thorough in his preparation; he never speaks cruelly to Moran. There is no actual incident or occurrence that Moran can point to as being an actual act of rejection, because it's not, not really. It's more just... Moran finds himself still wanting things it is now clearer than ever to him the Professor does not want. It's not a rejection but that is more because Moriarty is not turning him down so much as remaining oblivious to Moran's other interest in him.

If he is being honest with himself, Moran is somewhat disappointed. It is not about the sex, which in itself is very enjoyable and he is not about to refuse Moriarty any time soon. But he had hoped the more times they coupled the more perhaps the Professor might be willing to give to him, perhaps a kiss, perhaps to stay with him for a few minutes in the afterglow of orgasm, but there is nothing like that, and Moran is certain that asking for it would only sour things between them. Moriarty, much like Kitty it seems, only enjoys certain behaviours. Unlike Kitty though he seems not to even want to kiss. The only variation from their typical routine has been that one occasion where Moran came while they were face to face, and they still parted almost immediately after that. Moran doesn't mind the idea of continuing like this indefinitely but he wonders really, is this going to be enough to keep Moriarty's attention for very long? What frightens him more than the thought that Moriarty will never reciprocate his more romantic interest in him is still the idea that Moriarty will simply get bored of him sooner or later and cast him aside.

~

Sitting alone in his study at the university one afternoon, Moriarty idly wonders what Moran is doing at this moment. He finds himself thinking more and more about the Colonel these days, which is strange for a man who tends to prefer his own company and is used to being by himself. Three days, since he and Moran last indulged themselves in their _little arrangement_. Moriarty is still not sure he understands what many people seem to find so interesting about sex. It's true that he tends to be more relaxed when it is over; true too that the sensations created during the act are pleasurable, which is why despite still having an aversion to certain elements of it he can bring himself to actually do it from time to time, if only now ever with Moran. But he has heard men talking of sex as something profound, something amazing and wondrous and superior to anything else, and he does not understand that. His orgasms are pleasant, at least aside from the mess they produce, but still nothing about it is some manner of earth-shaking sensation to eclipse all other sensations. It's just... pleasant. His decision to have sex with Moran is akin to scratching a particularly infuriating itch or eating a decent meal when he is hungry. But he does enjoy seeing Moran's reactions, that is something that has surprised him somewhat, that he likes to see Moran's expressions change, that he likes to coax those moans and gasps of pleasure from him and hear him become incoherent, see how his expression becomes slightly glazed and unfocused in those few seconds after he spends.

Thinking about Moran again; he must be turning strange with his increasing age. Never before has another person manage to insinuate their way into his thoughts so often. But the Colonel is very kind, very solicitous too, and also arrogant, sometimes annoying, but in a way which manages to make the Professor like him more, not less, because he absolutely cannot endure sycophancy and false flattery. And still, despite everything, he remains seemingly somehow elusive. Moran has never had a single meaningful committed relationship in his life, apparently. This must be the closest thing to that he is capable of. He no longer tenses in the same way as he used to when Moriarty enters him and Moriarty infers from this that Moran's trust in him, already deep, is still growing. But he still feels rather like there is some barrier between them, that Moran has created a shell around himself to protect himself from harm, and he cannot let even the Professor through that armour, and this thought... it stings, a little. Occasionally Moriarty thinks, watching Moran, he would like to touch him in some other way, one that isn't about sex, but Moran still seems to be holding something back and keeping up those barriers around himself and Moriarty cannot therefore bring himself to do anything more. He still already has his fears, no matter how many times Moran reassures him and even though he is so sure that Moran is truly attracted to him in that way, that he is exploiting Moran in some unforgivable way by lying with him at all.

He really must stop thinking about the Colonel, he decides. He has work to do, so he determinedly pushes all thoughts of Moran aside, for now.


	13. When you whisper my name I'll be with you

_'Is it always going to be this way?'_ Moran wonders. He lies face down on the bed with his arms crossed, his forehead resting against them. A few moments more and he will be expected to move, to get up and clean himself up and get dressed. Already he feels the Professor shift behind him, withdrawing from him. The sudden loss of physical contact feels almost painful somehow, like tearing away a piece of himself.

“You sure you don't want me to come with you?” he asks as Moriarty moves behind the screen to wash. He is still not exactly sure why the Professor does that, when he seems so unabashed by the sexual act. He suspects the screen is less about attempting to preserve his modesty and more about the way in which the Professor wishes to try to compartmentalise and control his life. Moran would love to simply lie with him after, sprawling stark naked beside him, talking idly perhaps, or just sleeping with him, but once the actual act is finished then Moriarty still always wants to move on, to stand behind the screen, separating himself from Moran and thus perhaps also separating the sexual act from any manner of convoluted emotional entanglements. Sometimes Moran almost wishes he could do the same - _almost._

“It is not necessary,” Moriarty says from behind the screen.

Moran just manages to conceal his sigh at this. It might not be necessary but he had rather hoped the Professor would still want his company anyway. But he supposes it is hardly sensible, him tagging along while Moriarty attempts to charm a certain rich widow, part of some plan of his to obtain access to a particular piece of information apparently. It stings though, the thought of sharing this physical intimacy with the Professor only for him then to go off into the night to _romance_ a woman. The fact that Moriarty has no real interest in the lady herself and is only doing so as part of one of his schemes only really makes things worse in Moran's eyes, for it truly seems to demonstrate how little Moriarty cares for romance and how easily he can exploit such concepts for his own ends.

“How far are you planning to take this anyway?” Moran enquires, sitting up. “If she wants to kiss you, what then? What if she desires more even?”

“What kind of man do you take me for, Colonel?” Moriarty queries in return, putting his head around the side of the screen to regard Moran with a raised eyebrow. The glimmer in his eye suggests amusement rather than offence however.

“I don't precisely know, sir,” Moran confesses, because he feels he still does not truly understand Moriarty and suspects he never will. The Professor is too secretive, too self-controlled. Even during the moment of climax he tries not to make any noise (and Moran's shoulder still bears the marks of this, from where Moriarty bit him when he came, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to bruise).

“Do you think I'm some Lothario, Moran? That I will try to seduce any woman?” Moriarty says, and laughs.

Moran laughs too. “No sir.” In fact that is about the last term that would come to mind when Moran thinks of the Professor. He just isn't sure really what the Professor is doing with this woman and it hardly helps to allay his fears. Still he thinks maybe Moriarty will sooner or later toss him aside and take a wife, even if he does so only for the sake of his legitimate career. This seems even more likely now this particular woman is on the scene. He and Moriarty truly do appear to be friends but if Moriarty is capable of romancing a woman who means nothing to him, perhaps that really does mean Moran means nothing to him either; that he is really no more than some bed-warmer the Professor may cast aside once he is bored with him.

“I am not going to kiss her, save perhaps upon her hand,” Moriarty informs him, ducking back behind the screen.

This does not surprise Moran in the slightest – Moriarty still always turns down Moran's occasional tentative attempts to kiss him before or during sexual congress, deeming such acts to be pointless. The Colonel tries to see this from Moriarty's perspective, and to some extent does understand it, albeit not directly. Some acts are simply not for everyone and Moriarty is apparently a man who gets nothing from kissing. But he wishes he were not such a coward that he cannot bring himself to tell the Professor that kissing is not pointless to _him;_ that even if they never kiss that he still adores kissing, and that he wants to kiss Moriarty so much.

“Nor will I be participating in any other _physically intimate_ act with her,” Moriarty adds.

Which seems fairly obvious to Moran anyway. Moriarty seems content with their private arrangement but it still remains apparent that he is not attracted to anyone in that particular way, nor is he keen on the idea of experimenting with anyone else even. Besides, Moriarty is clearly even less comfortable with the notion of being intimate with women than he is with men, but then there is only this one man he is comfortable enough with to be intimate with in such a way. That should, and does, mean the world to Moran – he alone has gained the trust of this strange, enigmatic, astonishing man. If he was always logical about it he might think that that fact alone was proof enough that Moriarty would never simply callously discard him, but Moran has never been a man always capable of being logical, nor does it come easily to him to take anything at face value – he has been too often hurt and abused by others.

“You won't be needing any pointers from me then?” he queries. It seems a stupid question – totally pointless - even as he utters it, but he suspects he probably only said it in order to delay the inevitable moment where he will be expected to leave the room.

“About bedding women?”

“Yeah.” Moran holds his breath for a moment. Stupid, stupid, stupid, to bring up such a matter, to remind the Professor that he has lain with men and women alike, in the minutes after they have gone to bed together. Some people react badly to such things, with vitriol and spite; with terrible insecurity often. He does not think really, not any more, that Moriarty is the kind of person bothered by such matters but he still feels like a fool for reminding Moriarty of this. His terror that Moriarty might ultimately react like others have and accuse of him of merely 'playing around' with men – with _him_ – and of being incapable of real regard for them (for _him_ ), remains real, no matter how accepting the Professor has always seemed to be.

“No. Thank you.” Moriarty sounds perfectly casual, perfectly indifferent to Moran's past. When he is a man who takes so little notice of either sex in the manner that Moran does, it is truly a matter of indifference to him what sex Moran's past partners have been, so long as they do indeed remain _past_ partners.

“ _If we are to continue this arrangement,”_ he had said to Moran not so long ago. _“Then I expect exclusivity from you.”_

Moran had looked at him rather strangely. It was not the idea that the Professor might be somewhat possessive that surprised him, but this sounded so perilously close to _commitment_ rather than mere possessiveness.

And yet Moran had committed himself to Moriarty long before the Professor asked him for this. His more casual encounters had trailed off, becoming less and less frequent until at last they ceased entirely, and he does not really miss them. Only Kitty was left, someone with whom he could not and would not break off relations entirely – she is a dear friend no matter what, something which the Professor has seemed to be surprisingly accepting about – but somehow he had known that the last time he had lain with her would be the last, even though nothing had been said between them at the time.

So here they are in this strange _committed_ relationship, intimate in some ways, still distant in others. Moran is sometimes, alas, left to deal with the small, or actually perhaps not so small, matter of his own _lustful urges_ , or more specifically the fact they seem to occur in him with far greater frequency than they ever do in the Professor. If he can no longer seek out other people to sate such urges with (and when he cannot and will not of course make further demands of the Professor) then this really only leaves him with one option. At times, lying awake at night in his bed he is reminded inexorably of his youthful forays into such things, of hurried fumbles under the blankets and the terror of being caught (terror which, strangely, always though did seem to add a strange frisson to the proceedings). Not the most pleasant thing, to be reminded of his younger days.

“Are you going to get up?” Moriarty enquires.

“Mm.” Moran sits up. The Professor is almost fully dressed by now and Moran, caught up in his own thoughts, had barely noticed him changing. He has no real reason to get up again though, Moran thinks; he's not the one about to go out.

“Or you can stay there for a while if you like,” Moriarty says.

His tie is a little crooked, Moran notices. “Come here,” he says, beckoning the Professor towards him. Moriarty looks a little bemused, so Moran clarifies a little. “Your tie...”

“Oh.” Moriarty steps towards him and, still totally naked, Moran stands up and adjusts his tie for him. “Thank you,” Moriarty says.

Moran swallows and tries not to think about brushing the Professor's cheek with his fingers as he draws back from him. “You're welcome, sir.”

“I mean it, by the way, you can stay in here for a while, if you'd prefer to.” Moriarty turns away to finish getting ready. “Although perhaps you'd prefer to go out.”

Once if he had been left on his own Moran would have been going out on the prowl, seeking someone else to take to bed, or perhaps simply to take against a wall. Strange that all of that feels like a whole other lifetime ago. “I'll stay in,” he says. He flops back against the bed. The bed clothes smell of the Professor and there are probably worse things he could do tonight than curl up amongst them and sleep for a bit. “Got nothin' else to do.”

Perhaps Moriarty notices the slightest hint of bitterness in Moran's tone. “Did you _want_ to come with me tonight?”

Moran glances up at him sharply. “Want?” he says. “No, not really. Things like that are always bloody tortuous. It's just...”

“You think I cannot handle the good Mrs Stewart?” Moriarty smiles.

“Well, what if she's a widow 'cos she knocked off Mr Stewart?” Grinning, Moran settles his hands behind his head.

“Such mistrust of women, Moran,” Moriarty says. “I would not have expected that from you.”

Moran laughs, although he is wondering how well precisely Moriarty can handle a woman if she does wish to become rather more intimate with him than might be considered entirely proper. The Professor is very good at handling many people, being so charming that few realise how easily they are being manipulated. But he has probably never been faced with the amorous advances of a woman before and Mrs Stewart does have a certain reputation. Moran's instinct around the Professor is to try to protect him, from anything and everything from an assassin's bullet to melancholia to humiliation.

“I've heard the talk about her,” Moran says. “Some say she's a bloody man-eater.”

“I suppose you know all about those,” Moriarty says mildly, leaving Moran unsure if the Professor is referring to tigers or to _dangerous_ women. “Perhaps you should seduce her then. Perhaps that is a further use I could make of you.”

“You're gonna whore me out now then?” Moran chuckles.

“Of course not,” Moriarty says, ducking back behind the screen. “I am far too possessive for that.”

 _Possessive?_ Moran thinks all this talk of exclusivity and of possessiveness should perhaps make him feel at least a little uneasy. The Professor is a very controlling man, a very domineering one, well-used to manipulating people. In some sense he does indeed possess people, he owns them, he buys their loyalty and their silence. He's certainly managed to buy Moran, not merely as his assassin but now as his bed-warmer too. Only the latter isn't about the money at all and Moran knows it. Moriarty does not actually pay him for sex and Moran has certainly never expected or wanted him to. He wonders though... is Moriarty's sense of possessiveness over him purely motivated by seeing him as something he owns, an object, a toy to keep him amused, something he very determinedly does not want to share with anyone else? He dares to hope there is something else, something softer, gentler, warmer in feeling, but the Professor is so hard to read sometimes, as brilliant and as remote as a star.

“I _could_ come with you,” he says after a moment.

“You could.”

“Do you want me to?”

Moriarty pokes his head around the screen again. He had not considered inviting Moran along primarily for the reason that he thought the Colonel would be bored rigid by such an event. Moriarty himself loathes such functions, but he at least has a reason for going. Moran though has no reason to suffer through it and yet now he seems to _want_ to tag along. How bizarre.

“If you wish to. But you had better be planning on getting changed into something decent rather rapidly, my carriage will be here within the half hour.”

Moran practically jumps off the bed and begins to snatch up his clothes. Moriarty watches this with some bemusement, seeing Moran struggle to get back into at least a fit state to make a dash back to his own room to get changed.

“I won't be long,” he calls as he vanishes down the landing.

“Strange man,” Moriarty mutters.

~

Moran has actually scrubbed up very nicely, Moriarty thinks as they ride in his carriage towards the grand house hosting tonight's ball. His invitation, sent by an old acquaintance of his, did refer to him bringing a guest, so he is not going to be heinously breaching protocol by bringing along a companion.

The Colonel has washed, combed down his hair and attired himself in evening dress in what was probably record time. He looks very fine. Moriarty gives him another brief, appraising glance in the semi-darkness of the carriage. Moran is probably not what would be termed handsome in more conventional terms, but he is striking in appearance. Even Moriarty can see that. Good bone structure, pale blue eyes which seem darker sometimes due to how deep-set they are beneath his eyebrows. His nose is still ever so slightly crooked, testament – Moriarty believes anyway – to the attentions of Sir Augustus Moran many years earlier. Instead of making him look like some coarse bully though it seems to give him an oddly distinguished air, suggesting more a dashing rogue.

He wishes Moran would stop fidgeting though.

“Will you sit still!” he says finally, sharply.

“Sorry, sir.” Moran wriggles on his seat one last time then tries to obey. “These trousers are too tight, don't leave much room for my crown jewels.”

“You've gained a few pounds since you entered my employment,” Moriarty says. “Six, I should say.”

Moran looks as if he hasn't considered the idea that he could have gained weight. He'd actually thought the trousers must have shrunk somehow. When one of his white shirts came back from the laundry blue last time nothing would surprise him. He hadn't expected to have put on weight even if the housekeeper has been trying to fatten him up in a way which puts him in mind of a Christmas goose. He still exercises a great deal after all. Well, he walks a lot, when he needs to think. Plus there's the fucking, even if it's not as prolific as it once was; surely what he does with Moriarty is still vigorous enough to count as exercise. But maybe the sense of security and stability being in the Professor's employment has given him has helped to increase his appetite and thus expand his waistline a little.

“These people at the ball tonight,” Moriarty says. “They will be largely from the upper echelons of society.”

“Inbreds, you mean.” Moran laughs.

Even Moriarty seems amused by this. “They will sound... very different to how you customarily talk,” he says, as gently as he can, after a pause.

“Are you tellin' me I 'ave to talk proper, like?” Moran says, grinning. “Don't you worry, I can do fancy as a man with a plum up his arse.” And he shifts, transforms, very suddenly, sitting up ramrod straight, expression becoming serious. “I can talk to them about my jolly old adventures in India, playing polo and hunting wild beasts and antagonising the natives, what.” His voice and accent has risen a couple of social classes; it sounds polished, precisely enunciated. In fact it actually sounds a lot like his own father, which if he thought about it long enough would probably be enough to drive him to drink the entire contents of the flask he has secretly brought along.

Moriarty, who has occasionally disguised himself as someone else entirely for various reasons and who is himself fairly good at switching accents, is impressed. Moran's change is so swift and seems so natural somehow, superior even to his own talents. “I see you have skills even I failed to account for,” he remarks, and Moran breaks character to grin again.

“I probably have a lot more skills you don't know about, Professor,” he says, shifting back to his usual accent, and he winks.


	14. My shadow is your home

Moran tails Moriarty around the ball for a while, mostly watching the Professor, occasionally snagging a fresh glass of champagne off one or other of the silver trays carried by waiters dolled up in tailcoats and powdered wigs. After a time though a tall woman in a deep green dress, her fingers glittering with jewels, her extremely ample bosom displaying several more diamonds, enters the room and her glance immediately seems to be drawn towards the Professor.

“This the man-eater?” Moran enquires in a low voice as the woman starts to make her way over.

“Indeed.”

Moran sniffs disdainfully. “Her diamonds ain't as nice as those ones you sent to Miss Adler.”

“Indeed they are not,” Moriarty says almost out of the side of his mouth, before turning on a smile for the benefit of the approaching lady. “Mrs Stewart, how wonderful to see you,” he says, stepping forward to greet her.

“Professor.” She steps towards him and almost at once seizes his hand in hers. “And who is your rather dashing companion, hmm?” she enquires, turning her attention towards Moran.

“My dear, may I introduce my friend, Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Moriarty says. “Moran, this is Mrs Adelaide Stewart.”

 “Colonel, eh?” she says, and now she clasps Moran's hand.

“Delighted to meet you, madam,” he says, keeping his voice refined and polite.

“I could say the same,” she remarks, and Moriarty is left to wonder if introducing the two was a mistake. If it turns out she finds Moran far more appealing than himself then this could significantly interfere with his plans.

Thankfully however Mrs Stewart is distracted soon after this by the arrival of a woman in a lavender-coloured dress who is, as far as Moran can make out, some sort of rival in her eyes.

“The gall of that woman,” she says disdainfully. “Come along, Professor!” she calls as she makes to follow the lavender-clad lady out of the room.

Moriarty glances back at Moran. “You need not follow. They will only start hissing and spitting at each other like a pair of cats now that they've seen each other.”

“Sure you can handle her?” Moran asks with a laugh.

“Of course.”

“Well, good luck then, sir.” Moran watches the Professor trail after Mrs Stewart before he goes off to ingratiate himself with some of the other party-goers, trying to ignore the fact that his trousers are still chafing him rather unpleasantly around the nether regions.

It is while he is telling a group of three men whose names he has no interest in remembering some tale about pursuing a wounded man-eating tiger down a culvert (which sounds fake but is in fact perfectly true), maintaining his impeccable accent all the while, that his attention is drawn briefly away from keeping an eye on the Professor. _Someone is watching me._ He's caught it in the very periphery of his vision, not consciously but it's enough to send that old familiar prickle down his spine. It is very much like when he was hunting those tigers and sometimes even when he couldn't see the great cats directly his subconscious mind would manage to spot them and pick them out from the tangle of trees and undergrowth and shadows, enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and alert him.

Very deliberately he does not turn and does not pay the slightest bit of conscious attention to his observer. He allows his anecdote to reach its natural end (unlike Porter, Moran actually knows when to shut up) and politely withdraws from the group. Only once he has walked several paces away and picked up another glass of champagne en route to who knows where does he turn around and look at the person who is watching him.

It is a man, fairly young, tall, very thin, clean-shaven, hair slicked down so that it looks as black and glossy as a crow's wing. Dressed in black too. As with the Professor's attire often, the word _funereal_ springs to mind. His pale eyes are fixed very intently on Moran; clearly he intends to be noticed. As with the Professor also though there seems to be nothing in his regard of the Colonel that Moran can quite parse with any certainty. Sexual or aesthetic interest he can usually grasp quite quickly, unless he is extremely drunk (which despite a fair amount of champagne, he is sure he is not at present). Admiration, resentment, loathing, murderous intentions and several other reasons for an interest in him he could probably identify, but there is something so cool and detached in this man's scrutiny of him, and something strangely bold. He wants Moran to know that he is watched. Moran just doesn't know why this impudent cub should want him to know that.

He glances back towards the Professor, who is now sitting upon a chaise-long with the inimitable Mrs Stewart, apparently doing an excellent job of charming her judging by the way she is laughing. The lavender-clad lady is nowhere in sight so presumably Mrs Stewart has driven her away.

When he looks back the tall younger man is striding towards him, that same cool expression upon his face.

“Colonel Moran,” he says, holding out a pale hand which seems to be slightly stained in places with something that has been stubbornly resistant to scrubbing at it. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Moran shakes the hand, keeping his blue eyes fixed on those cold grey ones, far colder than the Professor's. He doesn't ask something inane such as _'How do you know my name?'_ because that's probably precisely what the man wants him to do and so he will not give him the satisfaction.

Holmes looks over towards Moriarty and Mrs Stewart. “Does your... friend know what he's doing? Mrs Stewart over there has something of a reputation.” He says this almost with a sneer. Not a great admirer of women, Moran thinks. He's just not exactly sure as yet what this man actually is.

“So I've heard,” Moran says. He wonders about that tiny pause before the word _friend_. When he looks at Holmes again he has the disconcerting idea that the man knows precisely what he and Moriarty were up to only a couple of hours ago. Only with the Professor himself has he ever had that feeling that here is someone who can peer right into his brain, though of course Moriarty seemingly still has a blind spot or two when it comes to Moran's regard for him. “The Professor knows how to handle himself,” he says. Although he does still wonder, what Moriarty will do if Mrs Stewart _really_ tries to get her claws into him. The Professor is masterful and controlled but Moran still has that thought in his mind that in some ways – particularly in the ways of women – he is still rather naïve. That and that the Professor does still possess an aversion to being touched and a sensitivity, even an over-sensitivity, to certain stimuli, which makes Mrs Stewart with her loud laugh, her habit of touching whoever she is talking to, her reek of strong floral perfume and the fact that she seems to positively sparkle herself, so draped in jewels is she, hardly the best person for Moriarty to be around. Moran knows even he would find Mrs Stewart intolerable to be in close contact with for more than a few minutes. Perhaps whatever plan Moriarty has in mind though enables him to get through it.

“Would you like to go outside?” Holmes enquires. “I believe you're rather gasping for a cigarette.”

Moran didn't know his urge to have a smoke was that obvious, although Holmes probably is a smoker himself and likely his statement that Moran is desperate for a cigarette is as much a statement that he himself wants one. It is very hot in here, stuffy, and filled with far too many people of the kind the Colonel despises. He is very torn between going outside into the cooler air for a quick smoke and staying to keep watch over the Professor.

“He'll be all right without your presence for a few minutes,” Holmes says. “He is hardly going to elope with Mrs Stewart in the time it takes for you to smoke a cigarette.” He smiles.

Moran wonders why that smile from this young man makes a shiver go down his spine.

Outside on the terrace Moran leans back against the solid stone wall of the house, hand cupped around his cigarette to shield it from the slight breeze as he lights it.

Holmes _is_ a smoker, but one of those infuriating ones who seems to frequently forget his own smoking paraphernalia, or maybe that is only a ruse to force Moran briefly into closer proximity to him. Either way it is one of Moran's cigarettes he now holds between his slim fingers as he perches opposite the Colonel on the stone balustrade, seated in a rather strange pose, his long legs tucked up beneath him. As he takes a pull on the cigarette he appears to contemplate it at some length, half-closing his eyes, nostrils flaring slightly.

Moran watches this, sure that Holmes is about to pass some comment on his choice of tobacco.

“You were in Afghanistan,” Holmes says at last.

“Know that from my choice of a smoke do you?” Moran enquires. He has dropped the upper class accent now, gone back to the dark alleys and byways and gutters of old London.

“No.” Holmes smiles again. “From the newspapers. You served during the Battle of Charasiab, amongst others.”

Moran shrugs, somewhat stiffly. Mentions in despatches, his name in the newspapers back in England, the medals he won, what does any of that matter any more. Most of that didn't even matter to him back then either, he didn't join the army for the glory of it; certainly not for the sake of Queen and country, or even out of some desire to be able to (more or less) legally sate his impulses to commit violence. He is not really sure any more why he actually did join. It probably comes down to the fact that he simply didn't know what else he could possibly be any good at.

“That is a sore point with you, I see,” Holmes remarks. “Your abruptly terminated army career. As is indeed your shoulder. Sore, I mean.” He points the glowing end of his cigarette in the direction of Moran's wounded shoulder. “I noticed earlier, the very slight stiffness suggesting an injury there. Healed, I think, but still new enough to cause you pain from time to time. Not a war wound though; it is I think too recent for that.”

Moran takes a drag on his cigarette and looks up at the stars above him. The Professor could probably tell him the names of most of them from various cultures and languages and even the myths that inspired those names – that appears to be one of his pet projects going by many of the books Moran has found both in the Professor's study at the university and at Conduit Street – but Moran can only identify the Pole Star at present.

“No,” he says, in agreement, after exhaling smoke into the cool night air. “Not a war wound.” Wryly he thinks about how his shoulder is only really playing up at the moment because of the way the Professor bit him when he came. The bullet's scar he bears there though is really the only badge of honour he cares about now, not those scars he picked up abroad, not the bits of now somewhat tarnished metal on ribbons he keeps in a battered box under his own bed. Certainly not the tattoo he still unfortunately has on his arm. This mark he bears signifies his loyalty and devotion to a better, far more exceptional man than he could ever have encountered in the army.

Holmes does not make any further comment on this, which somehow manages to suggest that he knows far more about the matter than if he had said anything more.

“Neither of us belongs here, do we?” he remarks, apparently idly, after smoking for a minute. “It seems you didn't even intend to come at all, until you changed your mind tonight.”

“What makes you say that?”

Holmes seems to unthinkingly be about to gesture towards Moran's groin, then almost – _almost_ – blushes when he realises this. Instead he waves a hand vaguely towards the Colonel's legs. “Your trousers are too tight particularly around the thighs and, ah...”

Moran smirks. “Intimate parts?” he says. It's nice to see the man discomfited a little, he thinks. Of course if he was feeling aggressively flirtatious he would have said _prick_ or _cock_ maybe but he is not quite in the mood for being that mean.

“Yes, those. Anyway, had you been planning to come you would have had the trousers adjusted or purchased new ones.”

_Bugger_ , Moran thinks. There could have been other explanations for his ill-fitting trousers but this time Holmes was annoyingly correct and it seems pointless to try to protest that _actually_ he is only wearing these because his better ones got burnt with the iron or eaten by a dog or something.

“You are clearly no more comfortable here than I am,” Holmes says, and then he smiles languidly. “I don't mean your _physical_ comfort. I mean...”

“I get what you mean. So then why _are_ you here?” Moran asks, eyes slightly narrowed.

“I was rather pushed into it by my brother. Got to have someone attending on his behalf, apparently. Ordinarily I would have ignored him but... there were certain features of interest here, so here I am.”

Moran suspects he is himself one of those 'features of interest', which is strange given that nobody knew he would be attending with the Professor and even Moran himself had no idea he would be coming until half an hour before they departed. That must mean then it is the Professor himself Holmes is most interested in. Moran must have his attention only because of his association with the Professor, although he clearly knows who Moran is, or was, at least. These thoughts are rather disconcerting, although Moran keeps his face impassive as he takes another pull on his cigarette.

“You're still worried about the Professor and Mrs Stewart,” Holmes remarks. “What are you, his bodyguard?”

Moran takes another long drag on his cigarette, regarding Holmes steadily. “Now why would a professor of mathematics need a bodyguard?” he says. He flicks ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it float away across the terrace.

“Why indeed?” Holmes muses. He half-closes his eyes as he takes another pull on his cigarette. “I've read your book by the way. Very informative.”

“Thanks,” Moran says blandly, not sure he wants praise from this man. That is actually more than the Professor seems to have done, although he supposes Moriarty will get around to reading the book when he has time. “What is it exactly that you do, Mr Holmes?” he asks after a pause.

“I am a consulting detective.”

“So what, you trace wayward husbands and missing pets or something?”

“Not a private detective, a consulting one. I have something of an encyclopedic knowledge of crime and criminals. Thus people come to consult me when they need my help to solve a particular puzzle, be they official detectives or private individuals.”

“I see.” Moran thinks that plenty of people consult the Professor for more or less the same reasons, only Moriarty's way of solving most of the puzzles they present are probably not very much like Holmes's methods. Moran himself is sometimes the Professor's chief _problem-solver_ for certain more tricky issues. They too though have dealt with one or two _problems_ for certain members of the constabulary, not that they'll ever get any credit for it. “Like what? What sort of 'puzzles'?”

“Thefts, forgery cases.” Holmes gives Moran a lingering look. “The occasional murder.” Slowly he looks away and half-closes his eyes again as he smokes. “Did you hear of the Lauriston Gardens mystery, as I believe the papers chose to label it?” he asks at length.

“Can't say I recall it,” Moran says nonchalantly. Even though he does, mostly because he was fucking one of Scotland Yard's finest, Inspector Tobias Gregson, at the time. The man had a very irritating habit of talking about his work, including how he solved that particular case, after sex. Moran has also heard through various underground sources that some think a certain professor had some involvement with the murders of Mr. Enoch Drebber and Mr Joseph Stangerson but in that they are mistaken. The whole affair was far too commonplace for Moriarty to have any interest in it.

“Well, regardless, I solved that case,” Holmes says.

“I see,” Moran says again, deliberately declining to comment further on the topic. If Holmes thinks that he is being aloof and guarded, so be it. It's likely far more dangerous to get into a discussion of various crimes with the man and besides, Holmes is probably one of those people too who loves to talk at length about his own supposed brilliance. Simply put, Moran really doesn't care any more about Holmes's account of the matter than he did about Gregson's. Both of them are probably full of shit.

Holmes unfolds his legs and slithers down to the ground. “Well, I should probably get back inside, lest I provoke my brother into sending me numerous irate telegrams berating me for spending all night smoking outside.” He stubs his cigarette out in the nearest plant pot before stepping forward to offer Moran his hand once more. “Please do give my regards to the Professor,” he says, clasping Moran's hand again.

“I will.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Colonel Moran.” Holmes's grey eyes fix on Moran's blue ones again, catching and holding his gaze.

For a moment they stand with hands locked tightly together, regarding each other, unblinking like snakes.

Moran gives him a smile that bares his teeth, just a touch. “The pleasure was all mine,” he says. “Mr. Holmes.”

~

When Moran goes inside again Moriarty and Mrs Stewart have disappeared, which causes a slightly sick feeling of unease in Moran's stomach as he wonders where they've gone and what they're up to. He's in no mood any more to pretend to be someone else so he does not address any of the guests, only the servants, asking them if they have seen the Professor. Apparently none of them have.

Prowling through several of the rooms fails to locate either Moriarty or Mrs Stewart either so he finally grabs another glass of champagne and takes a seat to one side of the room to drink it and wallow in self-pity. He wishes he hadn't come here. Moriarty can take care of himself he supposes and now he has been left alone, isolated and miserable and getting rather tipsy due to consuming too much champagne on an empty stomach. That latter issue at least could probably be rectified to some extent by going to the buffet table but he is not in a frame of mind conducive to eating either.

When Moriarty finally disentangles himself from the company of Mrs Stewart and goes in search of Moran, he finds him sitting alone, sagging. There is not really any other way to describe Moran's manner. He is practically slumped on his chair.

“You're drunk,” Moriarty says mildly.

“Only a smidgen.” Moran lifts his hand, thumb and forefinger held close together to indicate a measurement. “A teensy-tiny bit.”

“And you've been outside smoking I see.” Moriarty sniffs slightly. “And not alone either.”

“All right.” Moran stands up, almost steadily. “There's cigarette ash on my sleeve and I s'pose I smell of smoke an' all and it's logical I went outside to smoke but 'ow'd you know I weren't alone?”

Moriarty smiles wryly. “Because I looked out of a window and saw you, my dear Colonel.”

“Oh.” Moran scratches at his beard. A few flecks of ash flutter down from his sleeve. “Occam's razor,” he says, and chuckles.

Moriarty catches his arm and begins to manoeuvre him out. “Come on, it is time for us to leave.”

“I'm comin'.”

“Really, Moran, I expected more from you.”

“Sorry.” Moran doesn't really know what he is being chided for, the overconsumption of champagne or the talking to Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it's both. Either way he feels his cheeks flush with shame. “I was just makin' small talk,” he says when they are seated in Moriarty's carriage.

“With that Holmes fellow, who does not do 'small talk' unless there is a very good reason behind it.”

“You know him?”

“I know _of_ him, and the more I know of him the less I like him.”

“Same,” Moran says. “Wouldn't trust the little whelp an inch.”

“Yet you appeared to be getting on with him rather well.”

“Maybe he wanted to fuck me,” Moran says. He laughs, sharply and rather too loudly.

Moriarty looks faintly surprised by this thought. “Did he?”

Moran shrugs. “Couldn't say for sure. Probably not, but...” But still there was an odd sort of spark there, he was sure. It reminds him, strangely, of his earlier interactions with the Professor, when he had no idea what exactly it was Moriarty really wanted with him. Not sexual, not something Moran can easily pin down and define, but still something that seems beyond the norm.

“And do you wish to lie with him?” Moriarty enquires. He fixes his gaze intently upon Moran, so that Moran feels rather as if he is being speared onto his seat by its intensity, like an insect being pinned to a board.

“God no!” he says.

“Don't lie to me, Moran.” Moriarty says this sternly. There is no obvious aggression in his tone or manner; still though Moran senses something dark and dangerous in its depths, something that could be stirred to life by proceeding incautiously. It is perhaps the closest thing to truly aggressive jealousy Moran has seen him display. It's almost arousing to behold.

“Sir.” He considers his next words carefully before he speaks again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is thinking dimly that now is really not the time to be getting an erection; also that getting one in these trousers is extremely painful and he has some concerns about the long-term well-being of some of his favourite assets as a result. “I s'pose there are certain people who... if they made their interest in me clear then... I might go with 'em - only if I was a free man mind you - for amusement, you might call it. Because it would amuse me to bed someone like that and to see them... lose their control at my hands, not cos I was actually _directly_ interested in 'em.”

Moriarty considers this for a moment. On the one hand it reassures him that Moran can relate in some way to his own lack of attraction, that he can at least grasp that there are other motives for wanting to lie with someone. On the other hand such talk stirs into life insecurities he had thought he had got past, making him wonder all over again if Moran is truly attracted to him or simply feels obligated in some way to pleasure him. Another part of Moran's words are especially concerning to him.

“A free man?” he queries. It is not remotely the portion Moran expected him to pick up on. “You make it sound as if I have made you my slave, Colonel.”

“No, not your slave.” Moran tilts his chin up a degree. “But I ain't exactly free neither, am I? I can't leave your employment.”

“I do not force you to come to my bed however,” Moriarty points out.

“No sir, you don't.”

“I only requested exclusivity from you in that regard.”

"Yes sir.”

“Do you consider yourself my prisoner, Moran?” Moriarty asks softly.

“No sir.” Moran shakes his head firmly. “Not at all.” But he is in thrall to the Professor, really, even if the man himself knows little about that – bound by chains made of some material that is strange and nebulous yet stronger than steel, forged in the fires of a passion that burns hotter than the sun within his breast. Even if Moriarty held some metaphorical door open for him and told him to go, without consequence, he could no more leave Moriarty's side than he could put a bullet through the man's brain.

Moriarty regards him for a moment longer. It unnerves him, for reasons he isn't sure about, why it matters to him that he has never made Moran feel trapped. Moreover why this matters to him far more than the thought of Moran lying with another person. But he truly has never intended to behave like Moran's gaoler, or to treat him like some lovely thing kept locked in a cage.

“I didn't mean that you... imprisoned me,” Moran says. “Just that... I'm faithful to you, sir, so I'm not free to... bed someone else.”

Moriarty peers at him again in the gloom of the carriage. This conversation is becoming rather intense, he thinks. He pats Moran's knee gently. “As long as you are happy with that arrangement,” he says.

“Oh yes sir, I am.” Moran wishes Moriarty would stop looking at him in that way; it's becoming very awkward and he's probably a bit too drunk to quite moderate what he may blurt out shortly if the Professor does not stop watching him.

Moriarty glances away, and Moran breathes a small sigh of relief. It's probably best to change the subject, he thinks. “So how'd it go with the black widow?” he asks with a grin.

“All to plan, but the woman is insufferable. I am not sure the game is worth the candle, in truth.” Moriarty holds out his hand to Moran, an almost beckoning gesture. “Your flask, if you would be so kind.”

Moran tries his best to look innocent. It's not that he wouldn't give the Professor almost anything he asks but he was supposed to be staying sober this evening. He has definitely blown that though. He is also somewhat reluctant to change position lest it reveal his growing arousal. Perhaps he can blame it on the rocking of the carriage and the friction of his too-small trousers however.

“Really, Moran.” Moriarty emits a small sight. “Do you not think I am perfectly aware that you have been supplementing the copious quantities of champagne you drank this evening with the contents of your hip flask?”

“Right sir.” Moran hands over the flask, which is much less than half full now. Mercifully, if the Professor does notice his erection (which Moran has no doubt he does) then he chooses not to comment upon it. Perhaps he thinks the physical discomfort Moran is in right now is punishment enough.

Moriarty unscrews the cap and takes a swig of it, closing his eyes briefly, savouring it before swallowing. “That woman would be enough to drive anyone to drink, I think,” he remarks, handing the flask back over.

Moran takes it and puts it to his own lips, thinking as he does so of the Professor's lips touching it just seconds earlier. Is this to be the closest he will ever come to kissing the man, he wonders with some bitterness? And then he hates himself for that bitterness, because if the Professor doesn't like kissing Moran would never dream of trying to force him to kiss and wouldn't enjoy it if he did anyway, and it's not Moriarty's fault if he simply does not feel things for Moran which Moran feels for him.

“So, uh...” he says, trying to think of something to say that will cover for the thoughts he has just been having. “Are your plans with her on or off then?” Not that he knows what exactly Moriarty's plan even entails. The Professor has been oddly secretive about that and that still makes Moran uneasy. _Maybe he really is planning to marry her_ , he thinks, a thought which, however depressing it is, at least has the benefit of making his erection subside. The notion of Moriarty actually having to try to consummate a marriage to such a woman meanwhile is almost sufficient to make his private parts want to retract into his body. Christ, it hurts, more than any broken bone, more than being shot – this is a bullet that pierces him through the heart then dissipates, disappears, but leaves him cold; a bullet made of ice. The thought of losing the Professor that way, even to someone Moriarty cannot possibly love, it perhaps takes second place in terms of the pain it causes Moran only to the thought of Moriarty dying. Even a sham marriage conducted only for the sake of appearances would thoroughly ruin any real closeness between the two of them.

Moriarty shrugs. “I will have to consider the matter further.” He wonders why Moran has his eyes closed and such a look of anguish on his face. “Are you all right?”

Moran opens his eyes abruptly. “Just got a headache,” he says. Actually it's true.

“I wonder why,” Moriarty remarks dryly.

 


	15. I'll be there when you need me, even if it hurts

Tactfully, Moriarty chooses not to mention Moran's tipsiness that evening again. Nothing much can be gained by raising the matter, he supposes, and perhaps the way Moran looks the next morning will be sufficient to stop him from repeating the incident.

After the ball, time passes, as it is wont to do, and Moran settles into an odd routine. Sometimes he goes to visit the Professor, sometimes Moriarty comes to London to see him, but he spends a great deal of time by himself. He carries out more specialised tasks for the Professor occasionally. Much of his time though is taken up with visiting the various places owned by Moriarty, though these properties are never owned in a way which can be easily traced back to the Professor. He keeps an eye on things, always on the alert for anything that will cause the Professor any inconvenience. And he meets people – associates with certain skills required for a particular job often, although sometimes it is other people nobody would ever think could be associated with them but who are valuable to them nonetheless. There are so many people who are invisible to most others even in plain sight but Moran notices and he learns their faces, their names, their histories, and he begins, bit by bit, with the Professor's blessing, to build his own army of these invisible people. Street children, beggars, the lame, the sick, the fallen women – all of those whom the decent people do not want to see and choose to ignore, or those around whom people may behave incautiously. They become his - and through him the Professor's - agents, his spies and his messengers, none of them ever privy to enough information to cause either of them harm but all of them valuable in their own way.

It becomes obvious to Moriarty, when he sits one day in his carriage and waits while Moran stands in the street engaged in conversation with a thin girl who is apparently selling paper flowers out of the wicker basket on her arm, that Moran has a gift for dealing with these people. His memory seems to be impeccable for such things. In the same way that Moriarty can recall complex strings of numbers or Porter can retain a great deal of data about the rather mundane and every day issues of managing the properties, Moran remembers everything about these people. Moreover he actually seems to be interested in them. He knows who is married, who has children, even who has pets. He enquires after the health of sickly babies or elderly relatives or a lame pony or even, in the case of one boy who seems to live on the streets, a pet white mouse, and genuinely seems to care about the answers. He will produce a coin seemingly magically from behind the ear of a small girl or pat their dogs. People appear to warm to him to the same extent that they seem to almost universally dislike Porter, and not just because he hands over money to them. He is not merely buying their loyalty, Moriarty thinks, but actually earning it. As misanthropic as the Colonel is, he's very good at managing people.

Moriarty had of course always seen the possibilities in such people himself - the invisible, the ignored - but had neither the time nor inclination to organise them himself. Moran though has taken the task on with almost no guidance from him, discussing its possibilities with him but requiring nothing more from Moriarty than money to pay these people with. What a rare and valuable treasure the army back in India have thrown away, the Professor thinks.

“Present for you, Professor.” Grinning, Moran offers him a paper flower on a wire stem as he climbs into the carriage.

Instead of snubbing the offering as might be expected, Moriarty accepts it between his leather-gloved fingers. It is a beautifully made thing, barely any less delicate and fragile and impermanent as a real flower. He carefully places it into his lapel.

“Randolph's been this way about an hour past,” Moran says as he settles back against his seat. “Probably thinks he's being discreet.” He laughs.

Moriarty smiles a tight-lipped smile. Even lacking a great deal of understanding of human nature and the desires and needs which seem to motivate many other men, it is no surprise to him that Archibald Randolph, well known in the world of finance, is incapable of staying away from this area, not when a certain young lady resides there. How useful to the Professor though that this is so; it will make it so much easier when the time comes to exert a little pressure on Mr Randolph to _assist_ with one of his plans.

“I have been thinking,” he remarks after a few minutes once they are on the move again. “Your role within my organisation, it should have a new title.”

“Something other than assassin, personal secretary and concubine?” Moran grins again.

“Yes. Chief of staff, perhaps.”

“All right. Do I get a pay increase for that?”

“I had no idea you were so mercenary, Moran.” Moriarty wonders what Moran actually spends his money on. He still has a habit of going off to one or other of his clubs sometimes, putting on his more upper class persona along with his evening dress, and playing cards. That might explain where his money disappears to, except Moriarty is well aware that Moran is practically incapable of not cheating. He seems to have some compulsive urge to cheat even when he has no need to do so, purely for the thrill of it probably. Moriarty refuses to ever play cards with him because of that.

“I'm not. Not for you.” As soon as he says this Moran wonders if it was too much, even though it's true. Without the Professor maybe he'd just be some gun for hire, someone who could be bought by the highest bidder, his loyalty never solidifying, never setting, always shifting to whoever next offered him the right kind of money. “I mean... I just like the work I do for you, sir.” He lowers his gaze, feeling the Professor's eyes resting upon him. His face feels very hot suddenly.

“Does that mean I don't actually have to pay you anything, if serving me is apparently its own reward?” Moriarty enquires with a smile. But he wonders what exactly Moran means by such comments. It is apparent to him that Moran thrives on his work for him and it has given him new meaning and purpose. As such Moran is almost certainly not motivated by money. But is there another layer to the matter? Dare he hope that... there is some deeper affection there? But Moran is not like that, surely. Moran can be doggedly loyal, if treated right; it would be an insult to infer that he is incapable of displaying any loyalty when his previous disloyalty has only ever come about due to the shabby way he has been treated by those who still demanded he serve them faithfully. But Moran's string of past affairs and trysts and his apparent almost total lack of anyone else whom he could call a friend save for Miss Winter, they are suggestive about Moran's inability to form deeper attachments to anyone.

Moran glances up at him again, wondering. Sometimes the Professor seems as if he understands just why Moran is so fiercely loyal to him; sometimes he even seems to hint that he approves of those reasons, and then just as he seems to be on the brink of explicitly expressing this he will say or do something that makes Moran think he remains oblivious to Moran's depth of feeling after all, or, even worse, that he could and would never even welcome such feelings, never mind return them.

“No, you deserve every penny I pay to you and I shall certainty be increasing your salary,” the Professor says now.

“Thank you sir,” Moran says, without much enthusiasm, and Moriarty is left to wonder why the prospect of a pay rise seems to leave the Colonel so downcast..

~

Several weeks go by without the pair having any direct contact. Messages arrive sometimes for the Colonel but that's all, and the messages themselves are always about professional matters. Moriarty's tone is always courteous and respectful even in his written communication with Moran but there is nothing much in the way of affection.

He is not summoned to see Moriarty and Moriarty does not come to London again for a time. The Professor has his own life to lead – one amongst the hallowed halls of the university, amidst boring academics and piles of books. It is a life which Moran is becoming increasingly aware that he is not and never will be a part of no matter how faithfully he serves the Professor. It's not that he actually wants to be a part of it as such – Moran loathed Eton, loathed Oxford only marginally less than that, and any institution which reminds him of his unhappy schooldays is not a good place for him to be. Besides, all those dusty old books make his nose itch. But any place that the Professor is in always seems different somehow. His presence fills it with light and life even in the gloomy passages and dimly lit halls, even when he surrounded by works written by men long dead in many cases; by skeletons on stands and dead insects and spiders pinned to boards, parts of dead creatures in jars of murky liquid too, when Moran had to venture into one of the science rooms in search of the Professor one day. He doesn't even care that sometimes when he has been to visit the Professor at the university he has had to sit around in his study being very bored, waiting while Moriarty finishes a lecture or discussing some theory with a pupil or whatever else it is he does there.

On the very same evening that Moran's longing to see the Professor is particularly intense, Moriarty sits alone, brooding. He holds a letter crumpled in his fist. He would never normally be so careless as to damage his correspondence so – his letters are usually filed neatly away or carefully burnt – but this letter is different. This one has provoked only anger in him and he cares not at all what state the damned thing is now in.

He wishes that Moran was here, though what good that would do is beyond Moriarty's understanding to comprehend. Moran is good with guns and good at organising those people who work for the Professor; neither seems a skill which is appropriate at present, no matter how tempting it may be to send for the Colonel and tell him to bring his rifle with him. Even the idea of summoning Moran for sex doesn't appeal. Moriarty is not in the mood for that anyway and furthermore he does not believe that the stress this particular issue is causing him is one which can be relieved simply by coupling with Moran.

He casts aside the creased letter carelessly and leans forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on, building within his skull. Worse than that though is the mood which he can sense will accompany that, something desolate and toxic. It has been a long time since he has been laid low by such a thing but he knows sooner or later they will always have a tendency to return unless something significant occurs to derail them. Always he keeps on finding his thoughts turning back to the Colonel, to going to see him again, but considering it logically he doesn't want to drag Moran into this. It would not be fair on him to do so. Yet even so he cannot quite shake off the idea of going to him anyway.

~

After a while Moran almost starts to grow used to not seeing Moriarty - _almost._ He is not exactly happy but he gets on with his work and tries not to think about the Professor too much, certainly not about the softness of his hands, the shape of his backside, the way he looks when he comes. He is troubled occasionally by his own sexual urges, almost like an itch he cannot quite reach to scratch. He has his own hand and his fantasies and they will have to do but it doesn't quite seem fair to him that Moriarty has gone back to his work and left Moran here. Maybe Moriarty's own urges are so infrequent they don't matter to him but Moran is different. He has _needs_ , damn it. But it never seriously crosses his mind to seek out someone else to couple with. Really it's not just about the sexual urges at all. There is a pain within him that cuts far deeper than those. Those are like an irritation, a prickle, an annoyance, but not like the ache caused by the thought that maybe Moriarty has all but forgotten about him, that he has ceased to think of him as anything but as his chief of staff now and then failed to even notify Moran of this.

So when he arrives home one evening to find Moriarty has returned to London, Moran is surprised, very pleased initially, but that sense of pleasure fades somewhat the closer he gets to him. Why is he here, in the Conduit Street house, when he should be at the university? It makes him think of the time the Professor came here unexpectedly before, a time which resulted in them going to bed together for the first time. But this seems far more ominous than that occasion. He can sense Moriarty's foul mood almost before he enters the sitting room. It's as if the Professor's fury permeates the air.

“Professor?” he says hesitantly.

Moriarty looks up at him from where he is seated upon the sofa. There is something wry and mocking in that look. “I suppose you need not call me that any more,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because I am no longer employed as a professor.”

“They fired you?”

“I _resigned_.” The rage flickers across Moriarty's expression like lightning. “But in truth it amounts to the same thing. My position was no longer tenable, that much was made plain to me, not with certain _rumours_ being spread about me, and I cannot remain amongst people who treat me so poorly.”

“What rumours?” Moran narrows his eyes. “Sir, this is not about... you and me, is it?” For they may live dangerously but he has always thought that they were careful about their _arrangement_. As far as most people know he and the Professor are merely employer and employee, possibly friends also although many would no doubt question precisely how close the apparently staid, ascetic professor and the far rougher colonel could possibly be. Snobbery in others may have its benefits sometimes, leading certain people to not examine the relationship between the pair too closely.

“More I think a case of someone taking a wild shot in the dark and yet by some quirk of fate managing to chance upon the target anyway. I am not married, I have never seemed to show serious interest in any woman, of course I am vulnerable to suspicion even if I had never in my life lain with another man. There is a man who would exploit this fact because he covets my position.”

“I'll kill him,” Moran snarls.

“And immediately draw suspicion upon me for some far worse reason? No, Moran. I may as well face it, my career there is over. He wants me gone, they want me gone. If I had not resigned they would have found some way to remove me anyway and my reputation would likely have been even further destroyed in the process.” Moriarty's tone seems so lacking in spirit. Moran has never heard him sound so defeated about anything, and it is deeply unnerving. He can sense one of those dark moods he has long feared already creeping over and consuming the Professor.

“Sir...”

“Don't give me your pity, please Moran, nor meaningless platitudes.” Moriarty rests his head in his hands.

“I weren't gonna do either.” Moran tilts his head up, annoyed by the Professor's tone. The man is hurting, that much is plain to him, his confidence in himself seemingly badly knocked, but none of this is Moran's fault. “I was only going to say, I do understand, sir.”

“Do you?” Moriarty glances up at him abruptly. “Are you sure, Colonel?”

When he speaks like this it is so easy for Moran to believe all over again that he means nothing to the Professor, that he does not care for him in the slightest, that there is no intimacy between them and the sex was always merely Moriarty treating him like some anonymous molly boy, or worse, as some inanimate object even, just a hole for him to stick his prick in and no more. But, though it gets his back up, Moran can understand the Professor's rage and self-loathing, because he has been through the same thing himself.

“I should not have come here,” Moriarty says. “You should not be around me, I will only drag you down with me. Go out to the pub or wherever it is you go.”

“I ain't leaving you.” Moran says this with a resolute, slightly defiant tilt of his head. The Professor is probably well within his rights to simply order him to leave the house, since he owns the place and Moran is technically no more than a tenant, if that, but Moriarty came here, here of all the places he could have gone. Would he have truly done that if he only really wanted to be alone?

“You will do as you're told!” Moriarty snaps, showing the first real sign of animation Moran has seen from him tonight.

“No I damned well won't, not on this!” Moran never usually shouts at the Professor – it's not the done thing, not respectful, but this situation is so different to anything else he has faced with the man.

“Leave me,” Moriarty says, voice icy cold.

“No,” Moran says, shaking his head. He crosses his arms across his chest. “No, Professor, I will not.”

“Leave me!” Moriarty's constraint breaks, shattering like glass, and he roars this in a tone Moran has never heard from him before. “I don't want you near me!”

He might as well have slapped Moran across the face, so much do these words sting the Colonel. He is used to being made to leave after sex, to feeling somewhat rejected by the Professor, but nothing like this. Moriarty has never screamed at him so before, he has never appeared so angry, so furious, and so desperate to discard Moran as if he means nothing, as if he truly thinks Moran cannot understand what he is going through.

“You don't mean that,” Moran says, still shocked.

“Do I not?” Moriarty says scathingly, standing up. “Well thank goodness I have you, Colonel, to inform me of what I _truly_ mean to say.” He rakes a hand through his hair, pushing it back haphazardly off his forehead. “Thank the lord I do not actually believe in that I have your wisdom to enlighten me!” he sneers. “Go, Moran, now!”

Moran looks him in the eyes, unflinching, without fear. “I'll not abandon you. If you want me to leave you alone,” he says, tone deadly serious, “then you'll have to kill me, _sir._ ”

 


	16. You need me now like I’ve needed you from the start

“Both of us know I am not going to do that, Colonel.” Moriarty looks at Moran with sudden weariness in his eyes. “Why?” he asks. “Why would you even _want_ to stay with me?”

“Because you didn't bloody well save me just for me to abandon you the moment you get into difficulties yourself,” Moran says sharply. “Because I wouldn't have risked my life for you if I weren't in this for better or worse. Because... if anyone understands what it's like to spend years at something and to be bloody good at it only then to be forced to _retire_ from it, then I know. I do know, sir, precisely what that feels like.” He takes a step closer towards the Professor with each statement.

Moriarty watches his approach, unmoving. “So you wish to stay with me even when my legitimate career lies in tatters?” he enquires. “When I could be foiled so easily not by some brilliant mastermind with some epic scheme of dazzling brilliance and complexity but by mere idle gossip?” His voice is drenched in acid now, most of it directed towards himself. How stupid he must be, how _ordinary_ , if he could be brought down in such a way.

“Of course,” says Moran. He has never seen the Professor like this before, so dejected, all of his self-confidence obliterated, and his heart aches for him. If he could only take his pain away, he would do. “ _You_ are brilliant, Professor,” he says. “Your mind is like... nothing I can comprehend. I ain't stupid, I know I am not, but you are far cleverer than I am.”

“Yet still I am weak.”

“You're not weak.” Moran takes a further step towards him.

“Truly, I am not the man I believed myself to be, and as such you would be far better off away from me right now.”

“No sir, I would not.”

“I should not have come here and dragged you into this,” Moriarty says, but his voice is quiet, without any force at all. He seems to say this only because he feels somehow that he should. “Leave me, Moran.”

“No, _sir,_ I damned well will not!” Moran says fiercely, and lifts his hand to cup the Professor's cheek, pulls Moriarty's face closer to his and kisses him firmly on the lips.

Moriarty goes absolutely still, rigid in Moran's hold, apparently frozen in shock at the Colonel's behaviour.

A second passes before Moran pulls back, also astonished by his own impulsive act. There was no forethought, no planning, just him seizing that moment in time and daring to do something he has never before been bold enough to do. But it was a terrible mistake, he is sure by Moriarty's reaction, or lack of one, that this was so.

“I'm sorry,” he says hurriedly. “God, sir, I'm so sorry.” Because Moriarty _doesn't_ kiss, doesn't do anything that would imply greater intimacy, _romance_ even, between them, Moran knows that, and he shouldn't have done that. “I don't know why I-” He moves to pull away but Moriarty swiftly grips him by the wrist and pulls him back so they stand face to face.

“How long,” he asks, “have you been wanting to kiss me for?” Moran did want to kiss him the first time they had sex, he remembers, and has occasionally asked since then, but he had assumed that was entirely a sex thing, some act intrinsically linked to the acts to come. Now though he is no longer sure that was the case at all.

Moran shrugs slightly. “Thought about it not long after we first met,” he admits. “But I am sorry, I know you don't want-”

Now it is Moran who freezes as Moriarty seizes him by the front of his shirt and yanks him into a second kiss. It is clumsy, rough, totally lacking in skill or finesse, and still one of the most incredible and important things to ever happen to Moran.

When Moriarty breaks the kiss still he keeps a tight grip on Moran's shirt, still holding him there as he bows his head so that their foreheads touch. “Tell me,” he says, “ _really_ , why you will not leave me.”

“I, er...” Moran is seemingly struggling to remember how to string words together.

“Moran?”

“Those things I said are all real reasons.”

“But not the only ones.”

“Because I want to be with you, not only when things go right but when they go wrong too. Because... I care for you.” They are still close together, touching in ways they have never touched before, somehow this seeming more intimate than the sex has ever been. Moran finds his hand has moved seemingly of its own accord to grasp the Professor's shoulder. He never wants to let go of him, to never stop touching him. “And I want... _to_ care for you, like you did for me when I got shot. And I want... I just want you. Sir...” Moran swallows. “Why did you kiss me just now?”

“You seemed to want it.”

“You don't have to kiss me just because I want it, you don't have to do anything just because I want it.”

“What else do you mean exactly by 'anything'?” Moriarty asks. He draws back just enough to be able to look Moran in the eyes. “What else do you want from me, Moran, truthfully?”

“Whatever you can give to me.”

“I am referring to what you _want,_ Moran, not what I can give. What is it you dream about, fantasise about?”

“I just... want to hold you sometimes, or you to hold me. I want to kiss you more too. I want to... stay with you, at least for a while, after we... after we've lain together.”

“I thought you did not want any of that,” Moriarty says. “Sometimes I thought perhaps... I would like to try other things with you but I thought you loathed such intimacy with anyone, that you abhorred anything more... _romantic_.”

“I did, with most people,” Moran says. “At least, I never dared get too close to anyone. But then I s'pose... everything changed, after I had to come to England. _I've_ changed.”

“But still the first and last time we shared a bed for a night, you seemed to be unable to get out of the bed fast enough come morning,” Moriarty states. “You seemed terrified of lying close to me, afraid to touch me.”

“Because I thought _you_ didn't want any of that!” Moran cries, and then laughs. “Well, that and I woke up with a raging cockstand, which I thought you might find a touch offensive.”

“I did notice,” Moriarty tells him with a smile (and how relieved, how glad, Moran is to see him smile again). “And no, I was not offended.”

“Mostly I thought you hated being touched, hated being close to anyone. Even when we've fucked you always pull away soon after.”

“Customarily, yes, I dislike being close to people, but it's different with you.” Moriarty too laughs softly. How much time have they wasted, he wonders, dancing cautiously around each other, holding back, for no real reason at all, as it turns out. “I am afraid, my dear Sebastian, we may have been at cross purposes all along.” Hesitantly, doubtfully, Moriarty slips his arms around Moran, drawing him even closer. Moran's head seems to fall naturally into the space against the Professor's shoulder; he sinks against him, the two of them practically merging into one, so closely are they connected. There is no tension, no stiffness of posture, no resistance, just Moriarty drawing Moran close and Moran fully embracing this.

“I want you too to... to let go,” he says after a moment, his lips close against the Professor's neck. “We've had sex, yes, and you finish but even then... you don't let go. Not really. You won't even let me do other things with you. Other _intimate_ things I mean.”

“I thought you enjoyed me taking you that way.”

“I do! Please don't think... I do enjoy that! But this is not about that, it's not about what we do, it's just about... what we don't do. And you don't let go.”

“I do not think I can,” Moriarty admits. His whole life has been about control, about keeping himself contained, not giving anything back unless it profits him to do so. He is not repressed, not really – he has been surprisingly open with himself about whatever feelings he does have for Moran, it is only mostly from Moran himself he has tried to conceal them, in what may be the first truly selfless act of the Professor's life. Misguided and totally unnecessary selflessness, as it turns out. But repression... that would require something to actually repress and still, no matter what he feels for Moran, even though there is _something_ there, some feeling that is warm and strong and oddly painful, he clearly still does not feel for even Moran what Moran feels for him. There is no heated sexual longing, no romantic passion. Even if he was to search and search within the strange domain that is his psyche he is sure he would still never unearth those. They don't exist because he is simply not that kind of man and their lack cannot be fixed because there is nothing broken in the first place. It is merely how he was made.

But letting go of his control over himself, when it comes to that, no doubt he is still at least suppressing things there, because it _terrifies_ him, the thought of losing his control, and sex... sex, or orgasm especially, is one of the times when he is least in control. When he feels most in thrall to some biological urges that have little connection at all to logic and reason. It was a significant step, a huge step, to choose to have sex with Moran even once, never mind repeatedly. And he got used to that, got used to having sex in that way. He did not then see a need to try it any other way, nor did the idea of putting himself in an even more vulnerable position – letting someone else take one of his most intimate parts in their mouth for instance – appeal.

But then isn't there a part of him that is intrigued by the idea of letting go further? Of just acting, not thinking, not even needing to think for a time? Just for a little while turning off all the thoughts that run forever through his mind. And it is Moran he considers doing this with, not some stranger, not some passing acquaintance, not someone who he has simply paid to go through the motions with him. Moran who he trusts and cares for. Moran who offered up his life to protect Moriarty's without thought. Moran who apparently adores him in a way Moriarty truly believed Moran to be incapable of adoring anyone, because Moran himself had long also believed that to be true.

“Not even with me?” Moran asks, his voice soft but eager, earnest, desperate for some confirmation from the Professor that his regard is not some one-sided thing, that it is not futile having any feelings for him.

“Not yet,” Moriarty replies, and means it, means that at some point it may be different, because he does trust Moran. He feels safe and comfortable around Moran in a way he has never felt either alone or with another person before. The idea of having Moran as his _companion_ long-term, the idea of being physically intimate with him in other ways... it appeals, it has done for a while now, he was only convinced that such things were not what the misanthropic, mistrustful, usually-very-far-from-being-a-romantic Colonel wanted.

“Then there is hope?”

“There is always hope, Sebastian.”

“I just... want to make you happy,” Moran says. “Sir will you... come and sit with me?”

“All right.” Moriarty lets Moran take him by the hand and lead him back towards the sofa.

Once there Moran sits, tugging the Professor down to sit beside him, not forcefully, only guiding him.

“I don't mind, you know, if there are things that you can't... that you can never do,” he says.

“Even sex?” Moriarty asks with a wry grin. “What if I revoked my decision to be intimate with you in that way?”

“Then I'd accept it.”

“An easy statement to make, when the matter is entirely hypothetical.” Moriarty lifts his hand and puts it to Moran's cheek, gently cupping his face. “You are sometimes incredibly noble, Moran, but I'm sure the reality would be far harder for you to bear.”

“Maybe so, but I could deal with it,” Moran says. “If I had to. If it meant that...”

“That what?”

“That I could still have you.”

“I see.” Still Moriarty's hand rests against Moran's face. He thinks how much he likes how Moran subtly leans against the touch – at least Moran probably believes he is being subtle about it.

“It were never the thought that you might... that you might be uninterested in intimacy entirely that troubled me so much as... as the thought maybe even I meant so little to you that you could forget about me, maybe take a wife for the sake of your career, and that sooner or later I'd... be left behind.”

“Do you seriously see me taking a wife, ever?” The Professor seems truly amused by the very idea of this.

“The thought must 'ave crossed your mind, especially what with these rumours about you spreadin' about?”

“I have to confess it might have been eminently sensible if it had, but no, it did not.” Moriarty runs his thumb along Moran's cheekbone. Now that he has begun to touch the Colonel in other ways he finds he wants to keep on doing so, to find out how Moran reacts each time.

“And then you started seeing that Mrs Stewart.”

“You know that was business.” Moriarty smiles thinly. “Whatever my feelings in other areas, I do not support most acts of interpersonal violence, particularly marital violence, but I'm afraid that if I was to marry Mrs Stewart she would sorely try even my patience in that regard.”

“I don't know what business exactly that was about though,” Moran points out. “You didn't tell me.”

“I didn't think you were interested. It was not a matter that required your skills.”

“I'm interested in anything you do.” Moran smiles fleetingly, almost shyly. “I was afraid... maybe you were interested in her for something other than business. Not genuinely but maybe there was some other reason you might...”

“Wed her?” Moriarty laughs. “Do you truly believe, Sebastian,” he asks softly, “that you could ever be so forgettable, so _disposable_ to me?”

A novel thing still for Moran, to hear the Professor call him by his first name, and it sends a little jolt of pleasure through his mind each time he does so. “I were never entirely sure precisely what I was to you,” he admits. The arrangement had always struck him as being closer to a man having a secret mistress on the side than anything else.

“Because I never whispered sweet nothings in your ear? Never serenaded you with romantic poetry? Never bought you flowers?” Moriarty's words might seem mocking but his tone and the twinkle in his eye reveal the fact that he is merely teasing. “Surely the fact that I agreed to be intimate with you at all should have given you a clue about how I felt towards you.”

“I knew that you trusted me,” Moran says. Anything else though was a mystery to him, the Professor's heart was an enigma to him, Moriarty's thoughts a complex code he could not even begin to crack.

“Trusted you, became fond of you.” Moriarty drops his hand again to clasp Moran's hand in his. “Were you unhappy with our _arrangement_?” he asks.

“Not unhappy, no sir, not really. It's just... afterwards... I just...”

“Wanted more than that?”

“Yes, Professor. Wanted to see you more often too.”

“I truly had no idea, Moran. I thought... that the sex was all that you wanted, all that you were comfortable with, nothing more. This is all new to me, you know.”

“It's fairly new to me and all.” Moran laughs. “God, sir, I don't even know what I want either, not really. It used to be uncomplicated, I'd fuck people and then I'd never see most of them ever again and that was fine with me. But that was... that was when I was younger, mostly. Far more naïve. Far more _stupid_ probably.”

“Stupid is not a word I can ever imagine being applicable to you.”

Moran gives a fleeting smile at this remark. “It's different now though. I s'pose, coming back to this country, not having the army behind me any more, it changed my views on things I'd once have scoffed at. And then... then I met you.”

“Come here,” Moriarty instructs, tugging Moran over to sit upon his lap. He rests his hands upon Moran's hips, steadying him, whilst Moran instinctively moves his arms to rest them on Moriarty's shoulders, curling his hand around to lightly stroke the back of the Professor's neck. “I do not know what I can give to you, Moran,” Moriarty tells him. “How far I can let myself go, how much of myself I can offer to you. I do know... I do not feel precisely as you do, and I do not think that I ever will.”

Moran listens to this seeming rejection in silence, his hand still resting against the nape of the Professor's neck. His mind is in turmoil, his heart seems to be racing, and yet there is a strange sense of calm about him externally, as if he knows that to pull away from Moriarty would be pointless and entirely the wrong thing to do.

“I know too though that I have still found myself drawn to you in a way I have been drawn to no other,” Moriarty continues. “That I have found myself preferring your company to solitude, and hoping that... that you would choose to want to stay with me. Though I believe there are things you want that I do not understand in the slightest, I am not averse to trying certain other things with you.”

“Like kissing?” Moran asks.

“Like kissing,” Moriarty says.

So Moran leans down and gently places another kiss on the Professor's lips. It is sweet and slow, not demanding, not heated, bearing Moriarty's near-total inexperience with the act in mind, as well as the fact that he simply seems to have no natural inclination at all to want to kiss.

It is... interesting, Moriarty thinks. He still thinks that the feel of kissing in itself is something he will always remain indifferent to. There are physical sensations and he supposes that Moran is probably considered to be a very good kisser, although this is hardly something Moriarty feels qualified to judge, but at least when he kisses it is not unpleasantly sloppy or anything. He finds that he doesn't dislike it, it simply has no direct effect upon him, but how fascinating it is, seeing how Moran responds to being kissed. Oh there is arousal of some sort, of course, but also simply pleasure – pleasure at being so close to the Professor, at having their mouths pressed together, at being close enough to share breath. His eyes are closed as he kisses and of course Moriarty realises the significance of that too. If one is being realistic, being close enough to kiss someone also puts them within a range that would make it easy to hurt them, even to kill them, in easy distance of a knife or razor-blade. And Moran is so wary, so watchful most of the time. But his eyes are closed still and he seems lost, totally lost, in the physical sensations of the kiss.

It is still rather clumsy, rather awkward. The Professor seems to be picking it up quickly, learning how to meet and match Moran's actions, but his inexperience and simply his confusion about what is so pleasurable to Moran is still evident. But it's still just about the most erotic kiss Moran has ever experienced in his life, and the most profound one. He holds back a great deal still. Perhaps there will be a time when Moriarty would like to experiment with kissing harder and deeper and involving a lot more tongue but that time is not yet. Best to keep it light and sweet, and when he finally opens his eyes again he is so glad to see that the Professor is smiling when he pulls away from him.

“You looked peaceful,” Moriarty says.

“Did you... feel anything, from it?” Moran asks hopefully.

Moriarty shakes his head. “Not, I think, what you would like me to feel. It was not unpleasant however, and seeing how you react to it is most gratifying.”

“You can't do something only because I like it!” Moran protests.

“Why not?” Moriarty asks, and Moran is at a loss as to how to respond to this. “I am a grown man, Sebastian, I can make my own decisions, and if I choose to do something because it gives me pleasure to see your response to it, how really is that any different from me choosing to do something because I enjoy it directly?”

“But surely...” Moran tries to puzzle this out momentarily, although the way the Professor keeps gently stroking his sides with both hands makes it rather hard to think about anything. “No sir, you're right, it's not my place to question your reasons.”

“That is not quite what I said.” Moriarty laughs again, and Moran thinks how much he loves to see the Professor amused, the way in which the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, the gleam of humour in his eyes. “This is not how I foresaw this evening turning out,” he admits after a few seconds, his expression becoming far more serious once again. Not so long ago he had felt a sense of gloom overtaking him, eclipsing the anger that had initially consumed him at the position he had been put in by those damned blackguards in the university. But now both are fading into the background, pushed aside by thoughts of Moran. He feels confused still, nervous even about what this all means, but also there is excitement there, a sense of anticipation even. Suddenly when all had felt wretched and hopeless Moran's actions have not only dragged him bodily from the depths of one of his rare but intense fits of melancholia, they have given him a new sense of hope and confidence about the future.

“Me neither,” Moran admits. The very last thing he expected to be doing tonight was to be sitting on the Professor's lap, to be kissing him, to have his regard for him reciprocated, at least in some manner.

“I'm glad it did turn out this way,” Moriarty says softly.

Moran smiles, looking at him in a curiously childlike manner. “Stay in London with me, Professor,” he says. “For good, this time.”

Moriarty gives him a thin, bitter smile. “I suppose there is no reason for me to go anywhere else,” he says.

“You don't need that job and they don't deserve you anyway. And if you still want to teach, there are plenty of ways to do that here.”

“What, private tutor to some entitled brat?” Still Moriarty smiles that thin smile, like a sickle moon. Although even now he is thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind, that perhaps teaching the offspring of the wealthier families has never been the right thing to do, not really; that perhaps there are far more promising pupils to be found and more interesting educating to do amongst the poor, amidst the slums of London. Behind that is the thought that Moran will be terrified for his safety should he ever do such a thing. Even more dimly he wonders when it started to truly matter to him what Moran thinks of him.

“Don't have to be that.” Moran has arms resting against Moriarty's shoulders now, hands loosely crossed behind the Professor's neck. “There are other places you can teach.”

“Yes, although I shouldn't have to,” Moriarty says.

Moran can feel the anger still thrumming through him, and though he doesn't know precisely what the Professor is thinking he knows that he _is_ thinking, non-stop, unable to quiet his mind even for a little while. “Professor,” he says. Because to call him anything else save for that or _sir_ seems wrong still. Somehow to call him simply Moriarty would seem disrespectful, and they are closer certainly than he ever dreamed they would be but to call Moriarty by his given name would as yet seem a step too far. “Would you... come to bed with me?”

Moriarty looks at him, head cocked slightly to one side. “What is it, precisely, you are proposing we do there?”

“I don't know, _precisely_ ,” Moran replies. Truly he has not thought that far ahead – Moran is after all the generally far more impulsive one. “Just... whatever feels right.” And whatever will calm the Professor down, whatever will stop those negative thoughts running endlessly through his mind.

“All right.” Moriarty allows Moran to slide back off his lap. Once standing up again Moran looks somewhat awkward and uncertain about how exactly to proceed, so Moriarty takes Moran's hand. “Lead on, Sebastian,” he instructs.

 


	17. My dear Sebastian, in every breath we complete the meaning of our truth

Almost in a daze Moran leads him from the room, up the stairs, into the Professor's bedroom.

“I should have this room redecorated,” Moriarty remarks as he shuts the door behind them. “If I am to be spending more time here.”

“It's all right,” Moran says, never much concerned about the décor so long as the bed is comfortable and the sheets are clean, although he does recollect entering the bedroom of one chap who had a picture of a very mournful-looking Jesus hanging on his wall. Moran had had to turn the picture to face the wall before things became too intense but even then he had been haunted by Jesus's rather disappointed expression all through the act. Happily though the Professor's room has always been predictably lacking in any kind of religious iconography. “Want me to put a light on?” It's growing dark, gloom settling over the bedroom, although some light seeps in from outside.

“No. Darkness is much more intimate, don't you think?” Moriarty smiles.

“Yes sir.” Moran laughs. “What do you want me to...?”

“Let us just lie together for a while, hmm?” The Professor sits on the edge of the bed and begins to remove his shoes. “Then we shall take it from there.”

“Yes sir.” Moran does the same. He is deeply confused about what is going to happen but his whole body seems to be tingling with nervous excitement. It's arousal but not the kind he is more used to. His fingers seem to shake slightly as he tries to undo his bootlaces.

Moriarty notices this but decides not to comment on it. He wonders what Moran is so nervous about though. Can the Colonel truly be as unsure as he is himself about everything? He wouldn't have expected that – Moran is the one with seemingly endless sexual experience after all, although it seems he _is_ inexperienced when it comes to anything beyond that. _Love._ The word occurs to Moriarty, in the back of his mind, but he firmly pushes it aside. Best not to think on such things; doing so will only complicate matters further.

He removes his jacket and waistcoat, setting both neatly aside, so that when he lies down on the bed, propped against the pillows, he wears only his shirt and trousers. After a moment Moran comes and lies down beside him.

“This all right?” he asks, settling himself close against the Professor's side.

“Yes, that's all right.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“All right.”

“Those 'two and half'' times you went with other people...” Moran says this into the gathering darkness around them, leaving the question unfinished, allowing the Professor to make some sign if he wishes to proceed with this line of talk.

“Mm?”

“What exactly went wrong with 'em?”

Moriarty shrugs slightly, but his mouth seems slightly dry at the recollection. “The wrong people. I suppose I thought that... distance between us was a good thing, that it would be best to only go with someone who meant nothing to me, that way there would be no messy emotional entanglements to consider. Unfortunately that also meant I could not trust them, which made it impossible for me to... to truly enjoy myself. And the act itself... it became too much, too intense sometimes. The sexual act is...” He breaks off now, not for Moran to question him but because how does he explain this to a man like Moran? Promiscuous Moran who has been lying with people since he was barely more than a child. Who is younger than the Professor yet who has infinitely more experience than him. Sex is as normal as breathing to Moran. Moriarty makes no judgement about the Colonel's rather _colourful_ past but remembering what manner of man Moran is reminds him sometimes of the vast differences that exist between the two of them. Moran too dislikes being touched without consent and is especially wary about certain kinds of physical contact still but with him it seems to be less something innate and more something acquired as the result of mistreatment by others. “Too much touching, contact, stimulation can be...”

“Overwhelming?” Moran suggests. He sounds earnest, not mocking, not ironic.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes it is for anyone.” Moran laughs and cannot keep from boasting. “Especially when I get to work on 'em with my tongue.” But he becomes serious after a second or two. “That's why you never wanted me to do other things with you? Use my mouth on you?”

“I suppose. That and...” It's too intimate, Moriarty thinks, rendering him far too vulnerable. To allow another man to take his prick in his mouth, a mouth full of teeth. He trusts Moran, he does, but he trusted Green too once. Things are different with Moran, of course, his relationship with Green was always strictly professional but still... Moran's misanthropy and mistrust still makes a great deal of sense to the Professor. Yet always the thought is there that he trusted Green, who betrayed him, while Moran, the man he barely knew, risked his life to protect him from Green's treachery. “It seemed too much,” he says finally.

“ _Seemed_?” Moran queries. “Past tense?”

“I'm not sure any more,” Moriarty says. “That is not... it's not a declaration that I am open to trying anything and everything right now but...”

“Of course not.” Moran squeezes his hand briefly, gently. “It's all right, sir. If you don't want to do anything else, it's all right. And if you do... whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it, that's all right too.”

Moriarty looks at him and sees shades of Moran the predator, Moran the seducer, so used to being dominant with his partners, and he is not entirely opposed to the idea of letting Moran take charge of him some time during their physical intimacy, but not yet; anything like that now would be too much for the Professor to bear. But Moran submits to him, he bows his head, he drops eye contact when he senses it's too much for Moriarty and he is beginning to feel his precious control over the situation is slipping, which it feels as if it is, frequently. Before the Professor thought he did have control over the situation – inviting Moran to his bed occasionally. The arrangement was almost formal, the act strangely impersonal, despite how intimately they would be joined. But never kissing Moran, never taking him while face to face, never lingering after it was over, it was all right, he felt in control still despite his loss of control in the moment of release.

But it wasn't enough. Maybe all along really he has _wanted_ to lose control, wanted to turn off his thoughts and just let sensations take over, just for a little while. He simply thought that Moran was uninterested in anything more, thus he suppressed his own desires to experiment further, believing them futile.

He stirs restlessly, finally pulling away from Moran, who lets him go without attempting to stop him. Moriarty stands up and wanders around the room.

Moran sits up and looks across at him. “You're not comfortable lying with me?” he asks.

“It's not that.”

“What then?”

The Professor runs a hand back through his hair. “This evening did not go at all as I expected, I admit, and I am glad to have you as my companion, but still... I cannot just forget about the reason I'm in London again, why I had to give up all that I had worked for for many years.”

“Oh.” Moran swings his legs around so that he is seated on the edge of the bed again.

Moriarty stops in front of the window, looking out through the gap in the curtains at the street below. “How did you deal with it?” he asks. He glances back towards Moran. “Being driven out of your career?”

“Drinkin' and fuckin' mostly.” Moran laughs. “I don't know that I'd advise either for you though, sir.”

“Why not?” Moriarty turns to look at him directly, still with such an intense and serious expression upon his face. “I don't mean the drinking. I mean... sex.”

“I think there was probably a world of difference between what I was doing then and... us.” Moran meets Moriarty's gaze but has to look away after a second. Back then it was just sex, lust, just a basic biological need to be sated with whoever was convenient and willing, along with a need to vent his fury, his hurt, and orgasms were as good a way as any to release some of the pressure that was building and building inside him. Up until now sex with the Professor has been oddly detached but still a world removed from most of those encounters of Moran's past, far more meaningful than any of them.

“Even so. It's still about a release, about relief, distraction too.” Even with his fairly limited experience of sex, Moriarty still knows that it can be a form of stress relief, something that can make him feel calmer. He gives Moran an impish grin. “Or are you suggesting, Colonel, that only _you_ are allowed to use sex as some manner of coping mechanism?”

Moran grins also. “Course not. It's just... the way you feel about it is very different to me.” He slides off the bed and pads towards Moriarty. Predatory, almost, in his bearing, in his manner, his stride almost as noiseless and sinuous as an animal's, as a big cat. Moriarty feels he should be afraid as Moran approaches him, but he isn't.

“It is true that I will not go off and lie with total strangers.” Moriarty rests his hand on Moran's arm and Moran's gaze snaps up to meet his. “With you though...”

“You're saying you want us to do that now?”

“Do you want to?”

Moran licks his lips, perhaps unconsciously. “Yes sir, of course I do. If you're sure you do.”

“Kiss me,” Moriarty commands. “As you would your... your past _paramours_.”

Moran looks up at him, eyes wide.

“Are you disobeying me, Colonel?” Moriarty says softly, but still aggressively, when Moran hesitates.

“No sir.” Moran's voice is just as fierce, _tigerish_ , full of simmering violence, and he practically lunges at Moriarty, gets a hand around the back of his neck as his body presses Moriarty's back against the wall just beside the window. His mouth is on the Professor's and it's...

Too much, too close, too intimate. Moriarty closes his eyes, tries to breathe through his nose whilst Moran's mouth closes over his, tries not to overthink things, tries not to think at all, while all of his senses are practically screaming at him that he is held, trapped, that he must get away. His heart seems to be hammering inside his chest and there is a hand on his hip, strong and warm and... and...

Moran pulls back, stops kissing him. His hand remains against the Professor's hip, his touch still firm, and it's nice, actually, reassuring, Moriarty thinks above the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, as he takes a long gasping shuddering breath. “You don't want this,” Moran says. He sounds resigned. Not disappointed, really. As if he expected it. He unconsciously licks his lips again, perhaps to savour the taste of Moriarty upon them, but his gaze has dropped downwards.

“Don't tell me what I do or do not want,” Moriarty says, fiery in the face of Moran's hesitance, because something tells him assertiveness is the way to react now. He reaches, grips Moran's chin hard, tugs his face back up. “Do you presume that I am actually some virginal maiden? Do you mistake my inexperience for unwillingness, Colonel? Or naivete? Do you think I don't know what I am getting myself involved with?” Even though he is not sure, not really, save that he is getting involved with _Moran_ , and Moran... he's dangerous, Moriarty knows _that_. The man is capable of committing murder and not being much troubled by it after; he is capable of great violence besides that, and the Professor is sure he has probably left a trail of broken hearts at the very least behind him.

But he would never have been drawn to Moran in the first place if he was not aware how deadly the Colonel _could_ be. And he would never have remained so close to him if he had not believed that Moran never actually _would_ be so towards him.

“I think you underestimate... what it really feels like,” Moran says slowly. “Passion, desire, all of that. It's not... it's not neat, it's not... just thoughts. It's not... mathematics, not numbers, it's not something you can write down a formula for on a blackboard.” Although the Professor would probably try it, he thinks – some equation to try to make sense of desire, of attraction. He isn't even sure himself what he's referring to now – sexual desire? Or something else? Something far more abstract, far more difficult to pin down and define? Whatever it is, the fact remains that the Professor is a middle-aged man who has only had a couple of seemingly abortive sexual encounters in his life prior to Moran. Who has never kissed before, who has never truly exposed himself not even to the man he trusts the most, nor fucked him face to face. A man who is far more at home amongst his dry old books and numbers and signs and symbols written on a blackboard than he is amongst living breathing people who do all those messy and annoying things that living breathing people do like secrete bodily fluids of one kind or another. _Or fall in love._

He is not inhuman, not unfeeling. Moran knows that – knows that Moriarty is a passionate man, but his passions seem to have nothing very much to do with people, at least not getting close to them. He can admire some of them very much, as with his strange admiration for Irene Adler, but he has no wish to get close to most of them. And he is so tightly wound, so impeccably controlled, most of the time. But when he snaps... _“I don't want you near me!”_ Moriarty had all but screamed at him, the closest Moran has seen him to breaking down, but it was inevitable that something like that would happen sooner or later; the Professor is simply that type. He's like a finely balanced instrument, a watch perhaps, and with proper care will run beautifully, ordered, regular, in a perfect rhythm. But then if one day he is wound up too much, if too much tension causes him to overload, then the mainspring may snap, and he will break, his genius's mind tearing itself to pieces irrevocably if there is nobody to help him to pick up the pieces, or else to stop it from overloading and snapping in the first place.

“All these things you say it is not.” Moriarty still has his fingers tightly gripping Moran's chin, digging in hard. “Then show me, Colonel, what it _is_.”

Moran looks back at him, those blue eyes still startlingly wide as he scrutinises Moriarty's expression, reading him, searching for some sign that the Professor's words are mere braggadocio, all false confidence behind which really true terror resides. But Moriarty is resolute and unflinching as his own blue-grey eyes meet Moran's.

It is, of course, Moran who looks away first. “I can't... do anything I think you don't want.”

“I know.” Moriarty releases his iron grip on Moran's chin, brushes his fingers along Moran's cheek instead. “But I want to do this, I want to forget about everything else for a little while, and I need to know... what it feels like to let go, truly, if only once.”

Moran meets his gaze again for a fraction of a second. “Then take off the rest of your clothes,” he says. “Please, sir.”

Instead of protesting at this as Moran half-expected, the corner of Moriarty's mouth lifts into a smile. “Very well.” He starts to unbutton his shirt. “You do the same.”

“Yes sir.” And Moran does, watching Moriarty as he does so, his gaze dropping to take in the Professor's naked body at last. His skin is still so pale, not surprising with how much time he spends buttoned up, sat inside his office or in lecture halls. Moran has been with plenty of people as pale as the Professor but a great deal of his past experience was with those whose skin was of a far darker hue, be it their natural skin colour or the effects of the searing sun. The contrast is still striking even though all this time has passed since he last lay with anyone else.

“You can touch me, you know,” Moriarty says. He seems amused by the fact that Moran just stands there looking at him. “Kiss me again, if you like.”

So Moran does, stepping towards him, putting his hands to Moriarty's face and gently drawing him into a kiss. This one is much calmer than the last, and Moriarty still closes his eyes and Moran can feel him practically trembling again but there is not the same sense of him seguing into the fluttering beginnings of panic. Even when Moran adds a little tongue to the mixture Moriarty accepts it calmly enough.

He is beginning to get used to it, Moriarty thinks. Strange how one may adapt so quickly. Still though it seems to him to be nothing more than vaguely... _nice_. Vaguely warm, vaguely soft, the brush of Moran's lips against his own. The sensations, now he is getting used to them, are far from overwhelming though, and it is pleasant to see Moran look so contented.

“Can we...” he begins through the kisses. “Can we move back to the bed?” He has the sense that things, though they are presently extremely tolerable, might rapidly become far more intense again. He would quite like to be lying down in case that happens again. He pulls away, moving back towards the bed, and Moran follows demurely. Moriarty settles himself back on the bed, leaning against the pillows, before drawing Moran down after him.

Moran, crouching over him, kisses him again, and this time there is more tongue and Moriarty, not really knowing what to do with his hands, puts them around Moran's back. Moran shifts and now his mouth is on the Professor's neck, on his throat, kissing over the place where his pulse beats under his jaw, and Moriarty tenses, lets out a sharp breath. He has never done anything like this before. Sex, yes, but not this. Not being on his back with Moran above him. Not feeling Moran's weight resting on top of him, or Moran tracing a line down his neck with his tongue. There is so much skin to skin contact, so much touch, and it's very apparent to him that Moran knows what he is doing, that he is making use of all his experience to do what he has longed to do for a long time now. Moriarty though has no idea what he is doing, and it's hard to think, when Moran's weight is pressing him down, when Moran's tongue is trailing over his skin, when Moran's hand rests over his hip, cupping his hipbone. He can feel Moran's cock too, hard against his thigh. There is absolutely no urgency in Moran's movements – of course he must know his own prick is hard but he seems unconcerned about doing anything about it as yet. He seems far more focused on giving the Professor pleasure, and that's good, that's nice too but... but...

His thoughts keep on fragmenting. He is trying to think, trying to work out what Moran is doing, what he will do next, but he cannot, for everything keeps dissolving. Moran is kissing along his collarbone and his hand is still on Moriarty's hip and his lips and tongue keep on trailing over Moriarty's skin, swirling around a nipple now and... and....

“Wait!” Moriarty grips onto Moran's shoulder, holding him not to push him off or keep him at bay, but only because he needed to grab onto something to try to quell the sensation that he was about to start spiralling away, his mind unravelling into the ether.

Moran goes still. “Stop?” he questions.

“No, just... wait.”

Moran nods, perfectly obedient, endlessly patient, because he is, really, when it comes down to it. That's why he is so good, so absolutely brilliant at being an assassin, not only because he's a good shot but because he can wait patiently for hours for the moment, maybe a few seconds, maybe even only a second or two, when he can make the perfect shot. And he is good at this too, giving pleasure, even to those partners he would not spend more than a few minutes with, never demanding, never pushing too hard.

Moran's weight is resting on Moriarty's thighs, his hand is still pressed against the Professor's hip, somehow soft and heavy at the same time, on the right side of _too much_ , and Moriarty tries to focus on that, something that keeps him grounded. Moran's head is bowed but he looks up at him still, observing him, reading him all the while, and it's a strange sensation to the Professor. He is used to reading other people, observing all the details – profound and trivial – about them, whether he likes it or not. He's so rarely been able to turn that ability off, even when he tries to fill his mind with other things, with numbers, with music. And yet it occurs to him again now that he could not read Moran, not really. That he knew Moran wanted sex with him but he entirely missed that the Colonel wanted more than that. And now Moran is watching him, reading him, waiting, just waiting.

Part of him is so, so tempted to just tell Moran to turn around, to fetch the oil and then to take him the way he usually takes him, from behind, roughly, almost aggressively, thrusting hard into him until he spends. It would be familiar, it would be easier, it would not be terrifying like this is, not _overstimulating_. He can deal with the physical sensations of that act because he does not have to look Moran in the face, he does not have to think too much about what he's doing because he's done it enough times for it to become almost... _routine_.

But nothing about the two of them should be routine, there should be more than the brief sating of some biological urge, the perfunctory relieving of the pressure building inside him. Moriarty, no matter how upright and ascetic many perceive him to be, is not a man who denies himself the pleasures of life. He enjoys good food, fine wines, exquisite music, a decent cigar occasionally after meals. He is entitled to more than something so desultory, something which really is not so far removed from the sating of any other biological need, like the need to pass water for instance. Moran certainly deserves more than that too, though he has never complained and has shown every indication that he has always enjoyed the sex.

“You need to stop trying to anticipate everything,” Moran says. “You're overthinking it when you don't need to.”

“How can I let go if I can't prepare for what's to come?” Moriarty asks.

“You don't need to prepare for every last tiny thing. You just sort of... go with it. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I'm not gonna do anything you don't want.”

“I know.” Moriarty flashes him a quick, nervous smile. “I do know.”

“Just tell me when you're ready, sir,” Moran says. “However long it takes.”

Moriarty takes a deep breath, and nods. “I'm ready,” he says.

 


	18. Will you lay down your armour and be with me forever?

Moran drops his head to Moriarty's stomach, kisses the soft skin there. He strokes Moriarty's hip, down his thigh, back up again. Moriarty has never been touched like this before, so thoroughly, so intimately. 

“Professor?” Moran questions, his gaze flicking up to meet Moriarty's again.

Moriarty looks at him, taking a second or two to catch up with what Moran wants. The Colonel's hand is above his groin, above his prick, but he doesn't touch it. He simply waits, with that endless patience of his, until Moriarty gives him another small nod.

Moran wraps his hand around the Professor's soft length and he has touched him before in this way and yet... nothing like this, it was never so intense as this. Now Moriarty cannot keep his mind off the exact feel of Moran's hand, its temperature, its texture – warm, slightly rough, slightly calloused but in a way that creates just the right amount of friction, a sensation that almost tingles. His grip is firm, not too strong, not forceful, certainly not painful, but just right, because if Moriarty is going to permit himself to be touched then it needs to be firm, not some feather-light caress that would only torment and madden him. He is just beginning to get hard now, as Moran strokes him slowly from root to tip, as he runs the pad of his thumb across the tip of the Professor's cock. Moriarty hisses, almost curses, and his fingernails dig sharply into Moran's shoulder again.

Moran goes still again, hand still around Moriarty's length but not moving now, just watching, just observing. “Need me to stop?”

“No.”

“Want me to take my hand away?”

“No!” Moriarty's voice comes out almost strangled. The last thing he wants is the loss of contact, he just needs... he needs... he doesn't know what he needs. His muscles feel tight, tense beneath his skin, his body taut, quivering, like a bow string.

“It's all right, sir,” Moran says. He starts to stroke Moriarty's length again, still stroking as he comes up to kiss Moriarty again, deeply, roughly, feeling the Professor groan into his mouth as he caresses him. “'s' all right, Professor.” And he is moving down again, kissing his way down the Professor's neck, his chest, down his abdomen, still down. “Sir?” he says when he is crouched over Moriarty's groin. A clear question, though not one the Professor can quite understand.

He lifts his head up off the pillow and looks down. He expects to see Moran looking like a predator, almost; what he sees instead is just... Moran is so serene. His pupils are wide and his face is flushed with arousal but he looks so calm, so composed, so completely in control of himself and something about the fact is so infinitely reassuring to the Professor.

“Can I use my mouth?” Moran asks.

“You want to...?”

“Yes.” Moran smiles, and he looks so much younger suddenly, so boyish, and so completely devoted to the Professor.

 _'But why would you actually want to?'_ Moriarty wants to ask; why would anyone want to have another person's intimate parts anywhere near their mouth? But he doesn't ask, because that would be overthinking things and anyway Moran knows what he likes, what he enjoys, and though that may not make a great deal of sense to the Professor, he trusts Moran enough not to question what gives him pleasure.

The Colonel's hand is still loosely wrapped around Moriarty's cock, unmoving. “Yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” Moriarty says, and Moran closes his mouth over the Professor's prick, taking in the head first, then sliding downwards, warmth and soft wetness engulfing him. Moriarty whimpers at the sensation and feels Moran go still, pausing to consider the Professor's reaction. “Don't!” Moriarty says, a choked cry, not a plea though for a pause, not at all. Suddenly the thing he is most afraid of is that Moran is going to stop and withdraw from him. “Don't stop,” he manages to get out, and he would swear that Moran grins at him around his cock.

Why does it feel so different, to having his prick planted inside Moran's _arse_ , he wonders? The physical feeling is... different, somewhat, but not so vastly so that it can seem to explain why this feels so much more intense. But it is not just the physical aspect, is it? It is also the fact that Moran is looking up at him, lasciviously, coyly, clearly relishing what he is doing, but also with absolute adoration. Would that other act also feel different too now, now that he knows what he knows about Moran's desires? Perhaps so.

He finds himself unconsciously bucking his hips, perhaps as part of some rhythm older than time, perhaps simply because he knows how to do that much even if all his past experience has involved some other orifice. Moran's mouth slides further downwards, warm, wet, just lips, just tongue, no teeth, seemingly impossibly far (and Moriarty wonders, _how is he not gagging, or choking_? He is not quite arrogant enough to presume his is the largest prick Moran has ever accommodated but he had no idea the human mouth, the human throat could take that much without some adverse effects).

Moran makes a noise around the Professor's cock – a laugh, a hum, an attempt to say something, Moriarty has no idea what precisely but, really, _does it matter?_ – and in response Moriarty unwittingly bites the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood. Still without thought his hands grab onto Moran's head, fingers clenching into Moran's hair. Longer now than when he was in the army, it is not really long enough to get much of a grip on even so, but Moriarty makes a good attempt. Moran needs no encouragement to get his head down, he's doing a damned fine job of fellating the Professor all by himself, but suddenly it matters to Moriarty that he asserts more control over Moran, that he reminds Moran of his place and he continues to thrust, into that warm wetness, and it's not enough, it's far too much, and he cannot think of anything but this pressure inside him, in his groin yes, but not only there, just... within him. It's want, it's need, it's... _terrifying_. His chest feels tight, as constricted as if he were corseted rather than naked, and his eyes are screwed shut, he acts blindly, it's so much, so much pleasure that it almost _hurts_ , and he cannot breathe, he can't breathe, he can't-

When he comes, spilling into Moran's mouth, perhaps the sound he makes is a sob, perhaps it is more a choked cry, something childlike, something animalistic. Perhaps, because he will not be able to remember for sure afterwards. All he knows with any certainty is how he gasps for air in that second after all that tension, all the pressure, just seems to explode out of him, and throughout Moran's hand is still pressed against his hip, a steady, unrelenting reminder keeping him tethered, keeping him from losing himself too much and simply shattering into pieces when he lets go.

Moran stays very still after Moriarty comes, mouth still loosely wrapped around his prick. Moriarty is shaking, trembling, breathing hard, chest heaving, heart still pounding, and he becomes aware of the sweat on his skin and that makes him shiver more. Still Moran remains silent as he slowly draws back, and he swallows as he lets Moriarty's now softening cock slip from between his lips. He should feel disgust at that, Moriarty thinks dimly, that Moran would so casually swallow his... his _release_. Instead he only feels oddly proud, and oddly moved, that the Colonel would do that for him. The fact that Moran has probably done the same thing for too many men to count doesn't even matter.

Moriarty slumps back against the pillows, feeling exhausted, completely drained. Moran still rests his face against Moriarty's thigh for a time, his hair brushing Moriarty's skin. His own cock is still rock hard but he seems entirely unconcerned about relieving himself yet. It can wait, he thinks. The Professor matters more. Moriarty looks rather dazed, rather lost, so Moran slides his hand over, takes Moriarty's hand in his, squeezes it. _I'm still here_ , that gesture says, _I'll keep you safe_. Communicating with him without words because words would lay everything too bare, make things too awkward between them; they would only remind Moriarty of his vulnerability right now. But that... that much is all right, Moran's hand is something to hold onto, something to guide him back while he struggles to regain control of the situation.

“You all right sir?” Moran asks finally. His voice sounds slightly hoarse. He lifts his face up off Moriarty's thigh to regard the Professor. His lips look a little reddened too, Moriarty notices.

“Yes.” Moriarty smiles. “I'm all right.”

Moran sits up and gestures vaguely towards his own groin. “Would you prefer if I took care of this elsewhere?” Which is the last thing he wants, truly – the specifics of how exactly he finishes matter less to him, whether he relieves himself or the Professor somehow relieves him, but he would certainly not wish to have to go off to the bathroom or his own bedroom to take care of the matter as if it's some sordid secret act.

“Why would I want that?” Moriarty enquires. “If I am going to look so undignified in front of you, Moran, then I expect the same in return from you.” He pats the space on the bed beside him. “Come here.”

Moran slides over him, crawling up to flop down beside him.

“Lie on your side, facing away from me,” Moriarty instructs. He is growing more assured by the second, regaining his sense of control and composure. Anyone else but Moran, anyone else at all, he thinks, and he would still be utterly lost by now. But with Moran it's different, not merely in the fact that Moriarty felt secure enough with him to agree to this at all but in how the Colonel's physical presence throughout has helped him, stabilised him, and enabled him to recover far more promptly than he would have imagined possible.

Moran obeys, turning over so that his back is to the Professor. He's been in this position before but not like this, not so close, and for a moment he too tenses. Then Moriarty slides his hand across Moran's stomach, fingers splaying over it, drawing him even closer against him, bare skin against bare skin, and Moran relaxes, letting out a shaky breath.

Moriarty notices this, Moran's brief tension, his exhalation, and finds it interesting for what it means. So Moran still cannot quite let go of all his insecurities, even with him. Moran is still just as afraid as he is, he is sure. That notion is strangely comforting to him. Being reminded of Moran's sexual experience still does not bother him and in some ways all that experience makes Moriarty feel more secure, not less, around the Colonel. At least with Moran being so experienced that means less awkward fumbling about, not knowing what to do. But still there are pangs of insecurity, a passing moment here and there where he thinks _I have no idea what I am doing and this is going to put him off me._ Although the Professor has always been good at masking his insecurities and doubts, improvising his way through when he was truly at a loss what to do, making people believe he is perhaps even omnipotent, all-knowing, as well as the cleverest devil they may ever encounter. Moran... seems to see through much of that; maybe he has even done so from the start. But Moran too has his fears; Moran in some ways is just like him. It is a good thing to know.

“My dear Sebastian,” he says softly into Moran's ear. His prick is now pressed against Moran's backside but completely soft, and is probably highly unlikely to want to rise to the occasion again tonight. But no matter; that was not why he bade Moran lie like this, he did it so he could do _this_.

He closes his hand around Moran's stiff length and strokes, firmly. Moran bucks against his hand, gasping at the suddenness and surety of the touch, although what he perhaps finds most arousing in this situation is not what Moriarty is doing with his hand but it's the Professor's words, his voice, that dulcet tone of voice coupled with the words he actually speaks. _My dear_ , he called him. And his first name again. Moran has barely been called by his first name since he was a little boy. Mostly it's been just Colonel, or 'sir', or often Moran. Even Kitty usually calls him _Seb_. But the Professor calling him _Sebastian_ , it's proper, it's respectful, but it's also affectionate and tender and Moran had no idea how much he'd missed hearing that, until now.

“Sebastian,” Moriarty says again. “Come now.”

And ever obedient, Moran finishes with a strangled cry of, “ _Professor_!”, spending into Moriarty's hand.

Moriarty remains curled around Moran for a few moments, letting Moran get his breath back. At last he withdraws from him to lie back wearily against the bed. He closes his eyes for a few moments, feeling Moran shift beside him.

“Sir, let me...”

Moriarty opens his eyes again and finds Moran sitting beside him, holding a handkerchief. He gestures towards the Professor's hand. Moriarty holds his hand up and lets Moran wipe the mess off it.

“Want to get washed yet?” Moran asks.

“No.” Moriarty feels too tired even for that much, drained, as if something vital has been drawn out of him with what he spilled down Moran's throat. But the feeling is actually oddly pleasant, like floating in a warm bath. And the creeping negative thoughts seem very, very far away now, almost inconsequential. “Just... lie down with me again.”

Moran balls up the handkerchief and tosses it onto the bedside table before snuggling up against the Professor's side. Moriarty slips his arm around him and his fingers come to rest against Moran's shoulder. Lightly he strokes the scar where the bullet ripped through him. Moran saved him then, and apparently he intends to save the Professor again now. Without him Moriarty would probably currently be wallowing in self-pity and sinking deeper and deeper into melancholy.

“How did you... do that?” Moriarty asks.

“Do what?”

“Take my... Take me so deep into your throat?”

“A _lot_ of practice.” Moran grins.

“I should have expected that answer.” Moriarty laughs. “Will you expect me to do the same for you?”

“That deep?” Moran almost looks shocked by the notion.

“No I mean... just the general act.”

“Hadn't thought about it.”

“Well now it's crossed your mind, will you?”

“If you want. Can't see it really being your thing though.” Moran has actually given this some thought, before now, and he just cannot see the Professor relishing having another man's cock in his mouth, not even Moran's. One might say the same about the Professor and any sexual act – most would likely find it impossible to picture him engaging in anything like that - but somehow that one in particular still seems unlikely to the Colonel. Not that Moran minds too much. In truth, at least with a partner he has more than a modicum of interest in, he actually prefers to give rather than to receive.

“Would you mind if it was not my thing?”

“No.” Moran rolls over, looks at him intently. “Plenty of people don't enjoy it, and I'm not that much of an arsehole, Professor, that I'd expect anything from you that you weren't into.”

Moriarty has the sense that the 'you' here is not simply referring to him, that this is a far more general 'you'. Moran has his own odd sense of morality, questionable in some ways, sometimes somewhat elastic, but absolutely fixed in others. He has the suspicion that at least part of that and what things he is absolutely unwilling to do has some connection to Moran's mother but he doubts Moran will ever actually speak of that.

“Do you actually like the taste of it?” he asks. “I mean when I...?” He thinks he may as well make the most of asking Moran about sex, because while he has had the opportunity occasionally to ask certain people about certain acts it is not usually something he feels comfortable with doing.

Moran shrugs. “Wouldn't call it like or dislike. I don't mind it.” He thinks the Professor will probably hate it though, but maybe he's done it himself so many times by now he's ceased to really notice the taste much. “I know I'd rather have that in my mouth than certain other things though.”

“Like what?”

“Like porridge for one.” Moran seems to practically shudder, apparently at some traumatic memory involving the foodstuff.

“Why porridge?” Moriarty cannot help but ask.

“Have you _seen_ porridge?” Moran exclaims, and laughs.

“Do you always swallow?”

“Be rude not to, wouldn't it?” Moran chuckles.

Moriarty, who has never actually considered the proper protocol for these things before, laughs. “I suppose it would.” After a moment his expression becomes more serious again. “Moran... a man of my age, with so little experience... is that unusual?”

“Professor, I've been with men older than you with less experience than you. Not that I want to make you sound commonplace, cos you're not, but you're not alone in being inexperienced. Plenty of people don't want to do any of this at all. Plenty more are... I s'pose you'd say indifferent to it – don't hate it but don't care if they go a decade without a fuck.”

“I don't want... I don't want to let you down,” Moriarty says. An admission of such enormity that he surprises even himself that he says it at all. “You're younger than I am, far more virile, far more experienced, and you feel things that I do not.”

“You feel enough,” Moran says. “More than enough.” He reaches down and links his fingers through the Professor's. “You could never let me down, Professor.” He glances down. “I just wish...”

“What?” Moriarty asks when Moran hesitates.

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” Moran asks. “About... these rumours about you, all these things you've been dealing with? I wish you'd told me about that.”

“I didn't want to trouble you. You are my chief of staff; I hardly think your duties include listening to all my personal problems.”

“You could have come to me as a friend.”

“I'm not used to having a friend,” Moriarty admits. “And I still did not want to burden you. Besides, your presence around the university...”

“Might have just made things worse?” Moran fills in the gap.

“And it might have reflected badly on you also. I didn't want to bring suspicion on to you.”

“Professor... you still don't have to bear anything alone though. _Anything_.”

“I am not used to sharing either,” Moriarty says. “Not anything – problems, space, possessions. I have always been alone, more or less, and I liked it that way. I was content that way, perfectly content, until... you came along and undid everything I thought I knew.”

“Sorry.” Moran isn't sure what else to say in response to this.

Moriarty kisses the top of his head softly. “Don't be sorry. Yes, we have had our misunderstandings, our miscommunication, but at my age I no longer expected anything truly novel to occur in my life. I was resigned to that. And yet here you are, and now here we are.”

“Here we are,” Moran echoes, smiling. “So Professor, what exactly was the situation with Mrs Stewart then?”

“Someone came to me a while back. A client, I shall call him. He wished for my help in solving a certain problem. He was being blackmailed.”

“By Mrs Stewart?”

“Yes.”

Moran thinks of the loud, brash woman draped in jewels, clad in a clearly expensive dress. That probably explains what exactly paid for most of her finery then.

“Originally it was not only her alone. Her husband was also involved in blackmailing people over various indiscretions, some of them fairly trivial, youthful affairs of the heart, silly love notes or bits of romantic poetry sent to a serving maid or a stable boy; nothing illegal, merely something considered somewhat inappropriate as it was directed towards someone deemed to be beneath their station, that sort of thing. Some of those _indiscretions_ though are more recent and potentially have a much wider impact. I have certain men of my acquaintance, Moran, like you, like myself, I suppose, who enjoy the company of their own sex.”

Moran's eyes narrow and Moriarty sees the anger that is stirred in him when the realisation hits. “That's what they were blackmailing men over?”

“Some men, yes.”

“What happened to Mr Stewart then?”

“He died.”

“How?”

“Mysteriously.”

“So she _is_ a Black Widow?”

“It is often believed to be so but nobody has ever proven anything and they most likely never will. She's a cunning woman, Moran, and far from stupid. Your friend Mr Holmes certainly believes her to be a murderer.”

“I smoked with him once, Professor, he ain't my friend,” Moran scoffs, then he becomes thoughtful. “He said he was at that ball because of certain features of interest. I was sure he meant you, and me because I was with you. But is he after her too?”

“Very probably. The man seems to have a nose for crimes that the official police force always overlook, and an innate mistrust of women anyway.”

“So, you pursuing Mrs Stewart... that was for, what, to get hold of the information she held over your client?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

“So is he safe from her now?”

“Yes.”

“And what about you?” Moran sits up slightly. “She's a blackmailer who targets men with certain _leanings_. She seems also to be a murderer.”

“I'm hardly afraid of Mrs Stewart.”

“Didn't say you were, but evidently she's a dangerous woman, and you've crossed her now. What if... she was behind what made you resign your position at the university?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Moriarty says. “As did the thought that in being intimate with you I was placing myself in an inherently risky position, no matter how discreet we may be.”

“Never stopped you though,” Moran says, laughing. He lies back down again.

“I'm not a man to be put off so easily. It does not seem her style however. I suspect if she targets me it may be in a far more direct way.”

“If she _ever_ tries anything towards you, anything at all,” Moran says fiercely. He does not say precisely what he will do, but the implication is clear.

“Let us cross that bridge if and when we come to it, hmm?” Moriarty lies quietly for a moment, then begins to laugh.

“What's so funny?” Moran asks.

“The idea of being married to that abominable woman. Good Lord!” Moriarty practically quivers with barely suppressed mirth at the notion.

Moran idly scratches an itch on his leg. “Don't seem so amusin' to me, more my idea of hell.”

“Really, Moran, and I thought you liked women,” Moriarty remarks with mock disapproval.

“ _Certain_ women,” Moran says firmly.

“Do you have a preference?” Moriarty asks, becoming serious again. “For your own sex or the fairer one?”

“Never really thought about it,” Moran replies. Although that isn't really true. In fact he has often tended to get on best with women, albeit usually the kind of women who are shunned by respectable society. He likes women, admires them, _loves_ them even, just usually not in the romantic way. But when it comes to somewhat _baser_ matters... sex... he hasn't actually counted and probably could never do so with real accuracy considering he was probably too drunk during some of his encounters to remember them but he suspects he's probably been with more men than women. “You're not going to make me try to calculate it, are you?” he asks. Because counting up Moran's encounters and working out his preferences seems exactly the kind of thing Moriarty would like to do, while the thought of it fills Moran with horror. It's not that he's ashamed about his past, he just bloody _loathes_ mathematics.

“Perhaps one day,” Moriarty says. It could be interesting to consider, he thinks.

“It don't matter though, whether I have a preference or not, does it?” Moran says. “Cos now I'm with you. I won't look elsewhere.”

“I don't mind you _looking_ ,” Moriarty says. “Just... don't touch.”

“What would you do if I did? Touch, I mean?” Moran asks, perversely curious.

“Then, my dear Moran, I would have to punish you.” Moriarty says this in such a low, silky tone of voice that Moran swallows, slightly taken aback.

Moriarty is a domineering personality, a dominant force, he knows that already, but suddenly Moran has the distinct impression that the Professor has a whole other side to him that Moran has never even considered.

 _What a very intriguing idea_ , he thinks.

 


	19. I like how it makes me feel, so dangerous

Morning comes, and they are still in the same bed, still pressed close together. Moran opens his eyes and sees Moriarty's head beside his and for a few seconds wonders if he dreamt everything that happened the night before. He remembers the kissing, the touching, the sex, the conversations they had which had meandered from one topic to another, until the Professor decided he was sufficiently recovered to go and wash. He remembers sneaking off to procure them a rudimentary supper also, since he had found out that Moriarty hadn't eaten anything for many hours. And when they had returned to bed Moriarty had drawn him close once again. All of it feels strangely dreamlike, not quite real.

But he can feel the Professor beside him, smell his scent, sense his weight and warmth. If it is a dream it's a damned good one, better than anything he's ever fantasised before.

The Professor opens his eyes and regards Moran across the pillow. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning, Professor.”

“I almost expected you to change your mind, to leave during the night.” Moriarty would not have been the slightest bit surprised to wake up alone; to find Moran had realised he had made a dreadful error and that he really did not want to tie himself to the older Professor after all.

“Never, sir,” Moran says. “I thought maybe you'd change your mind though, kick me out.”

“No, Sebastian.” He looks so different like this, Moriarty thinks, so relaxed, and the closest he has seemed to carefree in all the time the Professor has known him, as if a great weight has been lifted off him.

Moriarty's own sleep was untroubled. He feels physically drained still but content. There is no real oppressive mood hanging over him, no sense that there is no point or purpose in even getting out of bed. If he wants to stay here for a while still it is only because he is really quite comfortable here. He still is not quite sure what he feels for Moran, only that is not the same as what Moran feels for him, but that doesn't seem to matter. He knows that his first instinct after storming out of the university was to come to London, not because of anything to do with the city itself but because it was where the Colonel was. Even though he didn't truly understand it at the time, when he was feeling hurt and rejected and at his most vulnerable, it was Moran he had wanted to be with, it was Moran's support and comfort he wanted. And Moran... he seems so happy to be here with him, reassured that it is him and only him who the Professor wants to be with.

“Sir,” Moran says now.

“You don't need to call me that in private, surely,” Moriarty says.

“But I like calling you that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” Moran smiles in a manner that almost seems slightly embarrassed. “I mean... unlike most people who demand or expect that I call 'em that, you actually earned it. Besides...” His smile becomes a slightly more lecherous grin. “There's definitely something _exciting_ about calling you that.” He rests his head against Moriarty's shoulder and gently runs his hand down the Professor's side. “Speaking of which... if you can't this soon after what we did last night, or you just don't want to it's all right, you can just say and I won't take it badly, but... do you want to try something else before breakfast? Work up a proper appetite?”

“This is some other sex thing you are proposing, is it?” Moriarty laughs.

“Yeah.” Moran flashes him another wicked grin. “Only if you're willing and able of course.”

“You think I may not be able?”

Moran shrugs. “To be honest, sir, I don't really know.” Usually there was a much longer gap between their sexual encounters previously, but was that down to the Professor's own sexual drives or simply him not wanting to feel he was pushing Moran for too much? “Some people definitely wouldn't be so soon.”

“Well, perhaps we should find out,” Moriarty says. “Although may I remind you I didn't actually have any real dinner last night?”

“Well, I'll get you a big breakfast then, after.”

“After what, exactly?”

“Something new, if you're willing.”

“Perhaps.” Moriarty looks slightly wary, trusting enough not to be straight up suspicious or afraid, but still uncertain whether Moran's proposal will be welcome or not until he has more data.

Moran rolls away from him, onto his other side, stretching over towards the bedside table. He pulls out the drawer and after groping around for a second or two produces the vial of oil Moriarty keeps there. “If we do it, we'll need plenty of this.”

The Professor narrows his eyes slightly. “But we've done...” He looks into Moran's eyes questioningly. “Are you proposing that we...? That you wish to... enter me?”

“No!” Moran half sits up. “Why, do you want to?” he asks, genuinely curious suddenly. The idea had not actually occurred to him in any serious way but it would be good to know the answer to this now.

“No, and yes. I think I would like to know what it feels like sometime but... not yet. It's too soon for that.”

“It's all right.” Moran rests his hand on Moriarty's arm and gives him a reassuring smile. “Maybe we'll do that some day, if you want, but I wasn't thinking of that now anyway.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“I can show you.”

“You could just tell me.”

“I won't hurt you, Professor, I swear it, and if you want me to stop any time I will.”

“I know that. I just don't know that I like not knowing what you have planned.” Moriarty pushes the hair that has fallen over his forehead back off his face. “Is this about me 'overthinking' things, as you put it?”

“Kind of.”

“I do trust you. It just... goes against my entire nature to relinquish even a little control, even if the idea does...”

“Excite you?” Moran dares to suggest.

“Yes.”

“You're still in control though, I promise you. You tell me to stop or slow down or anything and I will.”

“I know.” Moriarty looks at him, totally trusting.

“Then do you want to try this?”

Moriarty looks at him a moment longer, assessing the situation, then nods sharply. He is intrigued, he has to admit that to himself, curious to see what Moran is thinking of and not actually minding that much being kept more or less in the dark about it. If anything it makes things more interesting, not quite knowing what the Colonel is planning; letting Moran take charge of the situation, to some extent at least.

Moran grins up at him wickedly. “Just... sit back against the bed,” he says.

“Like this?” Moriarty lies back against the plump pillows, watching Moran steadily.

“Yes sir.” Moran shifts over to straddle the Professor's thighs. He too is observing Moriarty all the while, reading his reactions to every movement, every change in pressure, every shift of weight, constantly checking for any indication that the Professor is experiencing any kind of sensory overload, but he seems very composed, watching Moran with that stillness and calm in his blue-grey eyes.

His expression barely changes even as Moran pours some of the oil onto his fingers, then reaches around behind him. Anyone else would probably have not even noticed the barest widening of the Professor's eyes.

Moran dips his head slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration as he slides one finger inside himself. He has his tongue between his lips as he works it deeper inside.

“If you need me to do that...” Moriarty says.

Moran opens his eyes fully, looks at him again. “Let me do it,” he says. “You just lie there, sir.”

“But surely-”

Moran leans forward and silences Moriarty with a soft kiss against his lips. “Let me do it for you this time,” he says. “All right, sir?”

Moriarty does not truly understand why, but it seems to matter to Moran that he prepare himself for him this time. “All right,” he says. “Carry on with, ah... what you were doing.”

Moran snorts softly at this, bearing in mind exactly what he _was_ doing up until this brief pause. He carries on, adding more oil and slowly easing a second finger inside himself. As always he is tempted to rush this, taking a fraction of the amount of care he would were it the Professor or someone else he was preparing and not himself, but then he knows too little preparation could easily hurt the Professor too. With that thought in mind he determines to do this more thoroughly.

It occurs to him after a short time however that though he is himself growing hard now, his body reacting the way it usually does to this kind of stimulation, Moriarty is definitely not. Momentarily he had overlooked the fact that the Professor is not one of those past partners who could get aroused simply by watching him prepare himself. This situation, he thinks, probably needs rectifying shortly.

He withdraws his fingers then slides off Moriarty's lap.

“What are you...?” Moriarty starts to ask, as Moran slides down so that his head is above the Professor's groin, and then he realises. “Ah.”

“You need to be hard, sir,” Moran says. “I don't want you goin' off yet but this is the best way I know to get you ready.” He pats Moriarty's thigh gently with his clean hand. “I won't though if you don't want it.”

“No, no.” Moriarty airily waves a hand. “Do whatever you need to do.”

And Moran grins again as he leans forward and takes the tip of Moriarty's cock into his mouth. He sucks, very slowly, very carefully, only very gradually working his mouth further down the Professor's length. It takes him a few minutes to get Moriarty there, but he does, feeling the Professor's cock swelling and stiffening under his ministrations, and once he is sure Moriarty is ready enough and going along with this contentedly he slips his hand back around behind himself and resumes his preparation there, eyes slipping closed again.

“Moran,” Moriarty says after a moment, and Moran opens his eyes again, looking up questioningly.

“Mmm?” he asks around Moriarty's cock.

“While I admit I am impressed by your ability to do two things at once here, I have some concerns. You had better not be intending to touch me with that hand.”

Moran pulls back, letting the Professor's cock slide from between his now rather wet lips. “You want me to wash it first?” he says, rapidly trying to think of a solution to this that will not involve having to get up and traipse off around the house to find some hot water. All right, he can understand the Professor's point, but Moran has done plenty of things in his life that are probably much less hygienic than not washing his hand immediately after having his fingers up someone's arse, and he's survived fine.

“Well at least wipe it thoroughly.” Moriarty grabs a handkerchief off the bedside cabinet and drops this down beside Moran. It is rather a lowering of his usual standards of cleanliness, he thinks, but he supposes Moran is probably at least not intending to stick those fingers in his mouth or do anything else really dreadful like that, and they can always take a bath when this is over.

“Yes sir.” Moran sits up again, picking up the handkerchief and using it to wipe off his hand as best he can. He slides over to sit astride Moriarty's thighs again, his gaze fixed on the Professor's, shifting up higher though to accommodate Moriarty's now erect cock against the crack of his arse. He puts one hand (the _clean_ one) against Moriarty's shoulder, balancing himself, reaching behind and down again with his other hand, grasping the Professor's cock part-way down. “All right?” he asks, pausing there, meeting Moriarty's gaze still.

Moriarty is still watching him intently, reading him, observing, his own hands resting loosely by his sides. He seems curious and strangely detached, although his pupils are very wide. “Yes,” he says.

“Want me to do this?”

“Yes.”

Moran, grinning again, guides the Professor's cock inside him, using his hand at first but then pulling that away, sinking down only slowly, very carefully bracing himself, one hand on Moriarty's shoulder still, the other gripping the bedstead (that will have to be cleaned too now, Moriarty thinks dimly), ensuring he doesn't slide down more quickly than the Professor can cope with. It's a little more difficult, a little rougher, than the past times Moriarty has entered him, but he has spread so much oil inside himself that it is not too bad. He lets out his breath in a slow, shaky exhalation as he slides further down, inch by inch. When he has settled it in as far as it can go he pauses there, looking into the Professor's eyes again. “You all right?” he asks. Because he is afraid that the act is different enough, what with the angle and having Moran's weight on top of him, that it might unnerve the Professor.

But Moriarty only smiles. “I'm all right.” Something flutters in his chest like a trapped bird, the very faintest stirrings of anxiety, because it _is_ unnerving, this feeling of being inside Moran but also being trapped underneath him. Yet there is also something comforting about the feeling of the Colonel's weight pinning his thighs, his hips, like having a heavy warm blanket draped over him on a cold night _._ He doesn't know when but his hand has moved to grip Moran's hip. He lifts his other hand to brush Moran's cheek gently, and on impulse Moran turns his head and kisses Moriarty's palm.

“If you need me to stop...”

“Don't stop.”

Moran rocks his hips, riding the Professor's length, and Moriarty tilts back his head, lips parting, although he makes no sound at all. Moran leans forward, changing the angle slightly, eyes closed. Underneath him he feels Moriarty buck his hips up slightly, the movement enough to make the end of his cock press against Moran's prostate gland. His eyes fly open again and he looks at Moriarty, who grins an impish grin worthy of Moran himself.

“You didn't think you would be entirely in control here, did you, pet?” Moriarty asks softly, and Moran shivers. _Pet_. Somehow not a term of condescension, not something with negative connotations; instead from Moriarty's lips it becomes something affectionate with just the right amount of possessiveness, and it makes his own stiff cock twitch between their bodies.

“No sir.” Moran grins back at him. He draws himself up again, so that Moriarty's cock is barely inside him any more, then slides back down, and Moriarty cannot quite keep back a low groan of pleasure. “Not _entirely_ ,” Moran says, smirking. He continues to ride Moriarty's length, although the strain of it is starting to tell on him. His legs are starting to ache, his back too, an irritating reminder that he is not quite the lithe young man he would like to think he is, but Moriarty seems very close, surprisingly close in fact, to finishing. One arm still resting around the Professor's shoulder, the other hand gripping tightly onto the bedstead, Moran rocks his hips again, and again, gritting his teeth against the burning ache in his legs, thrusting up and down onto Moriarty's length as much as he can. His own cock still bobs between them, untouched but still hard. With this angle most of the thrusts of the Professor's cock into him are pressing against his prostate and it feels good, great, utterly amazing, despite the pain of the muscle strain.

The Professor's hands are on Moran's hips, gripping tightly enough to whiten the knuckles, unwittingly (or perhaps not) pulling Moran down as deep as possible onto his cock. He thrusts up again too, so that there are moments when it is impossible to tell who is in charge here, who is thrusting up or down at what moment, they are too intertwined, too tangled together. And then Moriarty screws his eyes tightly closed, he pulls Moran down hard onto his prick one final time, and he comes with a pained low groan of pleasure.

Moran, panting, chest heaving, goes still, knowing he cannot overstimulate the Professor any further now. He feels further wetness behind him, down the backs of his thighs, to add to the oil already slicking him there. His own cock remains resolutely standing to attention even as he shifts position slightly so that Moriarty's prick slides out of him.

The Professor, face flushed, hair tousled, opens his eyes and considers Moran momentarily. Then with a strange languid smile, he grasps hold of Moran's cock and pumps it, lazily but skilfully, until Moran - his gaze locked onto the Professor's - comes as well, his release spattering up his own abdomen.


	20. Love me like tomorrow we're dead

“Well then,” Moriarty says as Moran slumps forward against him, breathless, sweating.

“Well then,” Moran says, laughing. He slides up slightly, so that his forehead touches Moriarty's as he leans forward.

“That was very...” Moriarty says, but he cannot find the words to describe it. Intense, profound, such words might come close but still seem insufficient to convey it all, not just the act itself but the sense of sharing another new experience with Moran, of being face to face with him all the while.

“It was,” Moran says. He tilts his head and gently kisses Moriarty on the lips, leaving room for him to pull away if he wants to, but Moriarty first accepts the kiss, then leans into it. “Are you all right?” Moran asks after a moment. He remains close, so that their foreheads still touch. “I know... a lot of this is new to you.”

“I'm perfectly fine.”

“Are we gonna... carry on doing this kind of thing? Not just... that... Everything else.”

“I think so.”

“I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“You haven't.”

“I don't want you to feel either that... you're the one who has to make all the compromises.”

“How is this compromising?” Moriarty enquires. “I am willing to try a great many things with you. Those I don't enjoy we shall not do again. That is no compromise. Anyway surely the significant decrease in the amount of intimate activity you have is _you_ compromising?”

“Not really.” Moran has thought about this before, and realised that yes, although he is having far less sex than he was not so long ago, what he is having is far more satisfying than most of those past encounters, not merely leaving him sated physically but in other ways too, leaving him feeling calmer, much less restless. Even when he believed Moriarty could not care for him a great deal, even then it gave him a great sense of gratification, so much so that he did not actually ever truly feel a need to seek out an encounter elsewhere. Moriarty was enough for him in that way even when he believed his feelings could never really be reciprocated in any meaningful way. “What we do together, what we've been doing together, it's good.”

“Even though I am not experienced like you?”

“You're not exactly totally inexperienced either.” Nor has Moriarty ever been particularly naïve about sexual intimacy. Moran has been with plenty of people who are virgins or are extremely inexperienced, and most of those people are nervous, tentative, sometimes embarrassingly clumsy in their actions. They need to be taught and guided with great patience and skill as well as often needing reassurance that they are not some kind of sinner who is now damned to hell just because they fucked. It's not that Moran minds that – he doesn't – but it's just that Moriarty is not like that and never has been. Moran may need to guide him from time to time but Moriarty has always been controlled and self-confident, reluctant in some ways to relinquish control over himself and truly let go, but certainly never ashamed of his own willingness to lie with Moran. If anything he seems to embrace the fact that so many people do consider such behaviour sinful and wicked.

“I suppose not,” Moriarty agrees. But still he isn't quite sure what to do next so he puts his hand to Moran's face, which seems to be a good thing to do judging by Moran's reaction. At least, Moran rests his cheek against it, head tilted slightly as he looks at the Professor through half-closed eyes. “Are you still all right with... the way I feel for you?” Moriarty asks. Or perhaps that should be 'the way I _don't_ feel for you', because when he thinks about Moran and about the way Moran seems to feel towards him, and when he pokes and prods at his own feelings to see what's there still there seems to be something missing, something almost undefinable, but definitely _something,_ and somehow that thought which he had believed he was beginning to be reconciled with seems to matter more again in the moments like this, the moments after sex, when Moran lets his guard down a lot more.

“More than all right, Professor,” Moran says gently. “I know you care for me in your own way.”

And he is right. Moriarty knows that he is immensely fond of the Colonel; that the thought of Moran dying or him going off with someone else causes him a strange pain in his chest; that he trusts him more than anyone else. He knows too that he enjoys their physical activities together – at first it was only sex, but it seems kissing has its plus points also even if it doesn't really do very much for him directly, and simply being close to Moran, curling up beside him, touching him, feeling the warmth of his body against him is very pleasant too. He is happier with him than without him, is the fact of the matter.

“I'm not going to say our differences don't matter at all,” Moran continues. “Because they do, insofar as... I don't want to... to ever just assume you're comfortable with something only to find out you're not. It's the last thing I want to do, push you into something you don't really want. But our differences aren't so great as to be insurmountable.” He slides off Moriarty and sits beside him. “At least, I don't think they are, unless you do?”

“No.” Moriarty gives him a reassuring smile. “I don't believe they are either.”

Moran steps off the bed and stands up, stretching, oddly catlike. “Want me to run you a bath before we think about breakfast?” he asks.

“Why don't you run _us_ a bath?” Moriarty says. “The tub is big enough for both of us.”

Moran hesitates for a fraction of a second. “I'm not used to taking a bath with someone else,” he admits.

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this. “Ah so I have finally found something you haven't tried before?” He chuckles. “Go on, Moran, it will be an interesting new experience for you.”

The bathroom reminds Moran a little of being in India, at least insofar as it soon becomes rather hot and steamy in there. Having a decent bathtub, not one of those flimsy tubs one has to stand before the living room fire and tediously fill from a kettle or pail, but one with proper plumbing, makes the room very warm. There is a small fireplace in there too although with the weather like it is it will likely be a long while before they're in need of that.

Moriarty lies on his back in the tub with Moran resting against him. It is something of a novel experience for Moran, not just sharing a bathtub with someone but also simply taking the time to wallow in the warm water well beyond the time it takes simply to get washed. He was not prohibited from using the bathtub when Moriarty was not around but has never used it before. It always seemed like a waste of time to him, to lie about in a tub for ages. He had better things to do, so he thought then. He may have revised that opinion somewhat by now. Having the Professor as his bath-time companion has changed things.

“How old were you, when you first let a man enter you?” Moriarty asks.

Moran shrugs. _A long time ago then,_ Moriarty thinks.

“Thirteen, maybe,” Moran answers.

“So young.”

“Not really.”

“Still barely more than a child.” And Moran was probably not a robust child either, Moriarty suspects. If he had been then probably Augustus Moran would not have loathed him so much. That thought makes the idea of him engaging in sexual activity then even less pleasant to consider. Even if Moran was as precocious a child as Moriarty imagines, he would surely have been easy prey to some unscrupulous people. “Who was it?”

“An older lad.”

“Were you willing?”

“Willing enough.” Moran laughs softly. Truly it seems not to concern him. The act, though not particularly pleasant, is one of those things he has simply chalked up to experience. “It was shit though.”

“That didn't seem to put you off though.”

“Not generally, no,” Moran says, glancing back at the Professor, and there is a strange darkness in his eyes and in his tone as he says this. This is not a man whose appetites could probably ever be considered _normal_. Then again, he was an Eton boy, and churning out men who have a burning desire to be flogged until they spend seems to be a speciality of that fine establishment.

There is, Moriarty is just beginning to fully realise, a whole world of possibilities opening up between them, Moran with his strange dark desires for dominance and a little pain, Moriarty with his need to keep control.

“Your first time, being penetrated, you said that it was...”

“ _Shit_ ,” Moran supplies, laughing.

“Yes. Do you mean... painful?”

“Yeah.” Moran seems to wince slightly even at the memory.

“But you still tried it again.”

“And again, and again, and plenty more times after that.” Moran idly splashes the water with his foot.

He is so shameless, Moriarty thinks, so bold about his sexual past, completely unapologetic for it, as if daring people to hate him for who he truly is in order to weed out the weak and the worthless, and Moriarty admires that about him. His own attitude towards sex may be rather different and his sexual history prior to Moran is very nearly like a blank sheet of paper rather than some epic novel but Moriarty does not have much time for anyone else's shame never mind any of his own - shame over such a thing seems like such a pointless tedious human emotion to have. It was certainly never shame that kept him from experimenting more with others, just largely indifference. That and that he had never truly found anyone before whom he could trust. Plus the physical mess, of course.

“The pain didn't put you off then,” he remarks.

And the Colonel grins, strangely feral suddenly, flickering from man to beast in an instant. “Maybe I'm just that much of a degenerate,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Maybe you are, my dearest Moran.” Moriarty smirks, vastly entertained by this thought. “Will it always be like that? Painful? I mean if you and I were to...?”

“I couldn't possibly be as lousy a fuck as he was, put it that way.” Moran laughs. “I won't lie to you, Professor. If we do that, I'll be careful, I'll take my time, but it may hurt, or it may not, not really, maybe it'll be more like... discomfort. Not pain exactly.” He turns again, tilts his head on one side, studying the Professor's face. “Or maybe,” he says slowly, licking his lips, “it's more like... the pain is pleasure.” Because he is suddenly absolutely sure that the Professor too, just like him, has a streak running through him that actually likes a little bit of pain, when it is used in the right way. Probably not quite as broad as Moran's own, or present for the same reasons, but still... it's an interesting thought. “Are you still thinking that we should... do that?”

“Eventually.”

“All right. Whenever you're ready.” Moran sounds genuinely accepting of this, not at all disappointed that it is not to occur immediately. “We don't have to though, just so you know.”

“I know.”

“How old were you when you... first tried any of this?” Moran asks.

“Older than you were. Five and twenty.”

“Were you not curious before then?”

“Not curious enough to actually go through with it.”

“I see.”

“I killed a man when I was fourteen,” Moriarty says, perfectly calmly, as if it is completely normal, when sitting in a bath and talking about one's early sexual experiments, to casually bring up murder.

Moran does not flinch, does not seem to react at all. Most men would either recoil in horror or turn around and say to him, _'How amusing, to imagine you capable of that. What a wag you are Professor, what an absolute card.'_

“Why?” Moran asks.

“Because he tried to force himself upon me.”

“Professor?” Now Moran twists around in Moriarty's hold, looking at him with... it's concern, entirely concern for the Professor's well-being after this revelation.

“I plunged a knife into his throat,” Moriarty continues in that same dispassionate tone. “He bled, a lot, which was most unpleasant, although fortunately, I suppose due to the manner and angle at which I drove it in, I managed to avoid becoming too stained by it.”

“That's not why you, er...” Moran tries to think of a way to put this that won't offend Moriarty, but it would explain a lot, he thinks – the Professor's general aversion to sex, his dislike of bodily fluids even.

“No,” Moriarty says simply, correctly intuiting the remainder of Moran's question. “Truly it did not concern me very much, any of it.” He did what had to be done, it is as simple as that. Moran's reaction to the idea is far more emotional, he can see that in the way the Colonel is looking at him now – there is so much fury there towards that shadowy figure who tried to harm the juvenile Professor, and still worry for him now. He knows it too from Moran's reaction to being confronted with a similar situation – the Colonel's attack was brutal, violent, but ultimately lacking the proper control and direction needed to efficiently dispose of the man in question, which actually is probably the only thing that stopped Moran from being hanged instead of merely being made to retire from the army. But even as a fourteen year old Moriarty was cool and practical and serene in regards to such matters.

“So what happened, after you... did that?” Moran asks.

“I took anything of value from him, not because I wanted it of course, simply to make it appear as a robbery gone wrong. I slipped away. Nobody noticed. Nobody had any reason to connect me to him. The items I took from him I discretely disposed of later.”

“So you just... got away with it?”

“Yes.”

Strange, Moran thinks, that the Professor killed a man – and got away with it – around the same age at which Moran was interested only in very thoroughly losing his virginity.

“Should I be concerned?” he asks, grinning. “Now I know you're capable of killing someone yourself?”

“Did you presume I wasn't before?”

Moran shrugs. “Well, it definitely seemed more your style to delegate that kind of task to others always, but it would never have surprised me to know you were capable of that even when we first met.”

“Would you ever give me to reason to kill you?” Moriarty asks with a smile.

“Course not.” What exactly would be sufficient to make the Professor do that anyway, Moran wonders. Another attempted rape? A more personal betrayal? Say if Moran was to forget himself and seek sexual gratification with another? Or would only a more professional betrayal warrant him being murdered? It's all hypothetical anyway though, Moran would never do any of those things, he knows that and he knows, somehow, that Moriarty knows that too. Although he doesn't actually believe Moriarty would regard sexual infidelity as a matter warranting murder; the Professor is not that petty.

“I will have to go back to the university to collect my things,” the Professor says after a while. “I would appreciate it if you came with me.”

“I'd be glad to.”

“Please don't murder anyone while we're there.” Moriarty laughs, and so does Moran, lightly, easily, both completely relaxed in each other's company.

“I won't,” Moran says. “Though I reckon some of 'em deserve it for how they treated you.”

“Perhaps so,” Moriarty says. Moran's anger on his behalf is touching, he thinks. If anything Moran seems more outraged at how the Professor was treated than Moriarty himself is right now. Moriarty still feels strangely calm, relaxed and sated. “But it will not look good if immediately after forcing my resignation the men responsible drop dead, now will it?”

“Probably not.”

“Of course if something was to happen to one or other of them a little further down the line...” Moriarty allows this thought to hang in the air, like steam from the water.

Moran laughs again.

“I s'pose we'd best think about getting out,” he says after a few more minutes. “I'm wrinkling up like a prune.”

“Mm.” Moriarty has his eyes closed though and still seems to have no inclination towards getting out of the bath.

“Professor?” Moran turns around to face him.

Moriarty opens his eyes.

“You are still all right, with... all of this? With us?” Moran asks.

“More than all right, Moran.” Moriarty smiles at him. “And yes, you're right, it's time we got out. I need my breakfast.”

Moran seems to hesitate for a moment, considering something, then leans forwards and gently kisses Moriarty on the cheek before he stands up and climbs out of the tub, dripping water onto the rug.

He still looks so happy, Moriarty thinks, watching Moran towel himself dry, so contented. It's good, to see him like that.

“I'll go arrange for our breakfast while you get dressed,” Moran says after pulling on his shirt and trousers, as Moriarty finally gets out of the bathtub.

“Thank you,” Moriarty says.

Moran flashes him a quick smile. “It's no bother.”

“I don't mean that, I mean... for everything.”

Moran, looking down suddenly, blushes slightly but he says nothing for a moment. It's not a bother to him either to protect and care for the Professor, but he could not say that for he could not make it seem as if he is lightly brushing off Moriarty's words, as if they mean nothing very much. Finally he lifts his gaze again to meet Moriarty's. “You're very welcome, Professor,” he says.

 


	21. Is this the end? Or just the beginning?

Moriarty watches Moran diligently and carefully packing his books into a crate. It's very early and the university is quiet, all the better for avoiding most of the people Moriarty has no wish to see at present. If they get this done quickly he hopes they will be able to make it back to London before tonight. Currently a van drawn by a large Clydesdale horse is waiting outside ready to take the Professor's things to the station in order to transport them to London. There is no sense in leaving anything here any more; Moriarty's life here is done with. The two men who came in the van had offered to pack the items themselves but Moran seems to have taken over the task instead, leaving them to take out some of the bulkier items while he manages the packing of the more delicate ones. He is down on his knees, wrapping each of the more fragile books in paper before placing it into the crate. He looks so incredibly focused on what is really a rather trivial task. It is touching, to see him like that, Moriarty thinks. Moran's devotion to him still clearly goes far, far beyond the professional.

Sensing the direction of the Professor's gaze, Moran glances up at him. Moriarty is caught in a shaft of early morning summer sunlight slanting in through the window and he looks radiant, beautiful, almost strangely godlike illuminated like that. He emits such a sense of quietly confident power and control.

Moran swallows as he bows his head. _Christ,_ he thinks, _I really don't need to be getting an erection now._ There is certainly something very appealing about the idea of the Professor bending him over the desk and taking him there, or perhaps about undoing the Professor's trousers and fellating him. He suspects even the Professor might appreciate those ideas – it might seem like a fittingly perverse way to say goodbye to this room after he was forced to leave this place. Neither is a practical idea though, alas. Best to focus on the task in hand instead.

“Ah, Moriarty, leaving so soon?” a booming male voice says, as a tall blond-haired man sweeps into the room, and there go Moriarty's hopes of getting in and out before anyone significant notices.

From the icy cool look that the Professor shoots at this intruder, Moran gathers that this is not a friend; that indeed this may well be one of those men responsible for forcing Moriarty's retirement from this job. He pauses in his task, quietly setting down the book in his hand as he tenses, growing extra-alert.

“Well, Hansen, you will be glad to know that indeed I am leaving,” Moriarty says coolly. He glances over at Moran, raising his finger to his lips in the briefest gesture for silence.

Moran realises at once that in his present position behind Moriarty's desk, with packing crates and stacks of books around him, he is invisible to this Hansen fellow.

“Can't say it's a shame to see you go, old man,” Hansen says, laughing. His laughter is as loud and as infuriating as his voice.

Moriarty grimaces, just slightly. Hansen is only younger than him by a year or two, the impudent beast. “And I can certainly say it will be a pleasure to never have to see you again,” he says, keeping his tone pleasant, but his jaw is tight.

“Well, just stopped by to say _au revoir_ and all that; no hard feelings, what?” Hansen holds out his hand to Moriarty, who simply stares at it briefly, an eyebrow raised disdainfully, before turning away. Trying to salvage something of his dignity after this slight, Hansen uses his hand to smooth back his already smoothed back hair. “Well then,” he sniffs. “If you want to be that way.”

“I do,” Moriarty says, his back to Hansen.

“You must see, it is simply a matter of survival of the fittest.”

“Indeed? How fascinating,” Moriarty says with a yawn.

“If you have two predators and they cross paths, one, inevitably is going to come off the loser,” Hansen continues, seemingly warming to his theme and so caught up in his gloating speech that he doesn't notice Moran moving stealthily behind the packing crates.

“How interesting. By the way,” Moriarty says, turning. “Have you ever met my friend, Colonel Moran?”

Hansen turns around and Moriarty has the very great pleasure of seeing him nearly jump out of his skin upon coming face to face with the Colonel.

“Hello, Mr Hansen, very nice to meet you, _sir_.” Moran's head is bowed slightly but this is no gesture of submission, only one of pure disrespect that also adds a menacing, almost animalistic air to the manner in which he looks up at the now somewhat blanched-looking Hansen.

“That's _Professor_ Hansen!” the man manages to splutter out at last.

“Is it now?” Moran says, giving a wry sideways glance before looking to Moriarty over Hansen's shoulder. “That's good to know, _Mister_ 'Ansen.”

“What was it you were saying about predators, Hansen?” Moriarty queries. “I'm sure Moran here would be fascinated by it. Did you know he hunted man-eating tigers in India?”

Moran claps his hand onto Hansen's shoulder and feels him flinch. “I reckon it was _'If you have two predators and they cross paths, one, inevitably is going to come off the loser_ ', wasn't that it, Mr 'Ansen?” He has always had an excellent memory for such things, has Moran. Probably why he's so good at picking up other languages, even though his reading and writing skills in such areas are rather more execrable (and he does have a tendency to pick up some rather _colloquial_ terminology in whatever language he immerses himself in). Even his voice now when he recites Hansen's words has shifted, from his usual low, rough tone to closer to Hansen's own rather more upper-class and bombastic manner, shifting back to a somewhat exaggerated form of his own more usual mode of speech by the time he gets to Hansen's name. “An excellent notion, _sir_ ,” he says.

How marvellous, to see Hansen squirm like this, Moriarty thinks. And how wonderful to have Moran be the one to cause that. It might be easy to forget sometimes, what with Moran's tenderness and patience towards him, that the man is still pure predator, still a barely tamed tiger of a man himself. Moriarty has not forgotten that though, not even when he has seen Moran stop to pet some street dog or murmur some kind words in the ear of a horse or slip a few coins to some thin and grubby child. He is capable of immense kindness precisely because he has been treated so unkindly himself in the past, but nobody should ever mistake his kindness for weakness. Moran is a killer, something which that hapless fool Hansen is probably rapidly now coming to suspect.

“Yes, well.” Hansen clears his throat and attempts to pull away from Moran's hold on his shoulder.

Moran regards him, head tilted, a sly smirk on his face and his fingers still digging tightly into Hansen's jacket. “Leaving so soon, Mr 'Ansen?”

“I have, ah, things to do.”

“Well then.” With exaggerated courtesy, Moran relinquishes his hold on the man. “You'd best go and get on with those then. It was delightful to meet you.”

“Yes, er... very, er... Goodbye.” Hansen all but scurries from the room without so much as a backward glance. Certainly there is no further crowing directed towards Moriarty.

“Bye then.” Moran leans against Moriarty's desk and laughs. “ _Charming_ fellow. Was he the one who...?”

“Yes.”

“Sure you don't want me to kill 'im?”

Moriarty smiles but he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “No, thank you.”

“I could just shoot both of his kneecaps out for you instead.”

“A tempting offer, but I will decline,” Moriarty says. “ _For now_.” The image of Hansen looking as if he was about to soil himself when confronted by Moran is going to be sufficient to entertain him for quite a while, he thinks. He is not sure how he might have handled Hansen's taunting air had he come here alone. Normally he would be so confident, so self-assured, but certain things, certain people can get under even Moriarty's skin. Moran though seems to have a calming impact on him. Even just his presence is reassuring.

“Well, I'd best be getting on with this then.” Moran straightens up and turns back to finish packing up the books. As he kneels down again Moriarty strolls over to him. Briefly he runs his fingers down the back of Moran's neck, feeling him shiver slightly at the caress, but Moran does not pull away.

“I am most pleased with how you handled that, you know,” Moriarty tells him. “Perhaps some sort of reward would be in order later.”

Moran looks up at him, wondering if the Professor means...? One look at Moriarty's smile suggests that he does indeed mean that.

“You don't have to _reward_ me sir, if you don't want to,” Moran says.

“And what exactly, my boy,” Moriarty says, bending down to say this in a low tone in Moran's ear, “makes you think that I don't want to?”

The tone and the words send a further shiver down Moran's spine, practically straight down to his prick in fact.

“Later,” Moriarty reminds him, straightening up again.

~

Watching the last of the crates containing Moriarty's things being packed into the van, Moran leans back against the wall and smokes.

Moriarty stands beside him, also observing all these symbols of his life here being loaded up, ready to be transported away. By his feet there are a couple of smaller bags containing a few of the more portable and sentimental items that he will be taking himself instead of entrusting them to the removals men.

“There will be other jobs, Professor,” Moran says. “If that's what you want to do, you'll find something better.”

“Perhaps.” Moriarty gives a fleeting sad smile. “Something closer to London?”

“I didn't say it had to be.”

“You didn't need to, but you'd clearly prefer that.”

“Yes sir, of course I would, and when so much of our other work is there it might make more sense, but wherever you go... I'll come with you. I mean... if you want me to.”

Moriarty glances at him. “Of course I want you to.” He smiles again, more warmly now. “May I?” he says, gesturing towards the cigarette between Moran's lips.

“Never seen you smoke cigarettes before.” Moran has seen the Professor smoke a cigar occasionally after a good meal, but never a cigarette. Curious, he hands it over.

“You had never seen me with my prick in your mouth either up until very recently,” Moriarty points out in a hushed tone as he takes it, their hands almost brushing together. He puts it between his lips and takes a pull on it in a manner which suggests this is not the first time he has smoked one.

Moran, watching this, finds the sight of the Professor's lips upon the cigarette strangely arousing, especially in tandem with him conjuring such _filthy_ images back to mind. “ _Christ_ ,” he says, sure suddenly that he isn't going to manage to hold on until later.

“I don't smoke them customarily,” Moriarty says, handing the cigarette back to Moran and deliberately ignoring Moran's cursing. “To be honest mostly I find the smell irritating. But occasionally I find myself in a situation where it is appropriate.”

“And it's appropriate now?” Moran queries. He takes another drag on the cigarette himself, still thinking about the Professor's lips around it.

“Apparently,” says Moriarty.

“So what's the occasion? A big 'fuck you too' to all of this?” Grinning around his cigarette, Moran sweeps his hand around to indicate the university.

“Something like that,” Moriarty says, regarding the old buildings and the neatly clipped grass. It has been a home, of sorts, but not really a home at all. He is starting to think he never truly belonged here; that he was always an outsider. Although many of his students seemed fond of him and certain lower ranking staff members liked him due to how courteously he always treated them, he feels he was always mistrusted and disliked by everyone with any power and influence. “An ending,” he says.

Moran blows out smoke, his manner exaggerated, almost deliberately disrespectful towards the surroundings. “And a beginning,” he says.

The removals men, having made everything secure, close up the van at last. Within a few more minutes they are on board and the Clydesdale is trotting away, its great hooves clip-clopping on the road.

Moran drops his cigarette end to the ground and grinds it under his boot. “Well, shall we be going too then?” he asks.

“Yes, I suppose we should.” Moriarty moves to pick up his bags but Moran beats him to it.

“Allow me.”

“I can carry my own bags, Moran.”

“But you don't 'ave to when you've got me.” Moran grins at him and starts walking towards the carriage that is waiting for them.

Moriarty pauses a moment, standing behind to watch Moran walk over to the carriage and put his bags inside. Moran is still such an enigma to him, he thinks. Why when the Colonel could have had his pick of so many men or women would he want him? Moriarty does not understand it, though he is so pleased that this is the case.

He casts another glance back at the university. Not a home, he thinks again, and it never really was. Maybe, he is starting to realise, home is not really a place at all though; home is not just about a roof over your head, about bricks and mortar, about furniture and possessions even; home is about who you're with.

“You coming, sir?” Moran calls from beside the carriage.

Moriarty turns back and strides towards him. “I'm coming,” he says, with a smile.

Professor Moriarty is going home.

 


	22. And I've not felt alive in this way for a long time

It's strange, Moriarty thinks. Once he would have viewed the act of sex as only about taking care of some biological urge that showed up from time to time, and doing so in a rather less tedious way than by using his own hand. Sometimes it might also have the benefit of relieving stress also. But now the closer he gets to Moran the more he can see how sex may fulfil other purposes – bonding with him, for instance. Or as a reward, even as a motivator.

Also it is most entertaining seeing Moran come undone beneath him. It is intriguing too to learn that sometimes he can make Moran do so, relinquish all of his composure and control, whilst remaining perfectly in control himself.

Moran is naked. Moriarty is not. Moran is hard. Moriarty is not. Moran lies on his back whilst the Professor lies beside him, one hand idly stroking Moran's cock.

“How can you... _fuck!_... Look so composed?” Moran asks between gasps as the Professor teases and torments him with the lightest of caresses, alternating these with firmer strokes whenever it seems Moran might be starting to get _too_ frustrated. The room is hot and Moran is already sheened in sweat, but even attired in black Moriarty still looks perfectly cool.

“It seems I have a natural talent for it,” Moriarty remarks with a smile. He has climaxed in or around Moran a number of times by now and he doubts that anyone can retain much dignity in the moment of release. It bothers him, a little, that it is impossible to keep a sense of self control _and_ experience the full pleasure of orgasm, but he feels secure enough with Moran that he can conquer that feeling of vexation and allow himself to simply enjoy the physical sensations. But he is finding that in its own way this is even more interesting. Sometimes it seems a certain part of his anatomy is affected by Moran's lasciviousness; this evening apparently it is not, and that is perfectly all right with the Professor. It enables him to keep a clear head and thus to be able to fully appreciate all of Moran's reactions, his moans, his gasps, the cries of pleasure he tries to keep back, and the way in which he does give up control of himself for a time.

“Now where the bloody hell are you going?” Moran cries as Moriarty withdraws from him, ceasing all touches.

“Shhh,” Moriarty says, reaching over towards the bedside table. “Just trust me.”

“I feel I shouldn't whenever you say that.”

“But you do anyway.”

“True.” Moran begins to reach down to touch his own cock but the Professor pushes his hand away.

“Ah, no.”

“Sir, _please_. I'm _dying_ here!” Moran gestures vaguely towards his prick.

“Wait.” Moriarty pulls open the drawer and takes out the bottle of oil. “And no, you are not going to die from not having that tended to immediately.”

“I might.” Moran laughs. “I'm sure someone has before now.” He watches Moriarty uncork the bottle. “You wanna fuck me?” He has no objection to the idea but he had thought that that wasn't what the Professor wanted tonight.

“Not as such.”

“Then what...?”

Moriarty pours a little oil over his fingers. “I simply want to watch you give up your control.” He pats Moran's thigh with his other hand. “Spread your legs a little.”

Looking up at him with his pupils wide and dark, Moran obeys, spreading his legs, bending the left one at the knee a little. He is so relaxed, Moriarty thinks, and so trusting. He wonders precisely how far that trust goes. Would Moran allow himself to be blindfolded? Have his wrists restrained perhaps? Not yet, he thinks, but some day maybe he will, and that thought brings with it the realisation that he is constantly now thinking about a vision of the future very different to how he perceived it would be not so long ago. Now he always envisions a future with Moran, not merely with the Colonel in his employment but with him by his side, as his friend, his companion, his lover.

Moran, sensing a momentary change in the Professor's focus, puts his hand on Moriarty's wrist. “You all right, sir?”

“Yes.” Moriarty smiles. “I was just... thinking about the future, the things we will do together.”

“We,” Moran echoes quietly, as if he can still hardly believe he figures anywhere in the Professor's equations. He grins.

“Of course 'we'.” Moriarty leans over him and kisses him softly on the lips. It becomes more heated, more passionate after a moment, and when their mouths are pressed tightly together he reaches down between Moran's legs, down beneath him, and eases a finger inside him. The Colonel groans softly into the Professor's mouth, bearing down onto his hand, wanting more. “Slow down,” Moriarty chides. “We have time, Sebastian, plenty of time.” Although really he loves to see Moran like this, needy, full of urgency, desperate to be filled and fucked. It flatters his already immense sense of self-esteem to know that he can bring the younger and probably generally considered to be more handsome man to this state.

“Please, Professor,” Moran says. Moriarty presses deeper into him with just the one finger and it is good but he wants more, he can take far more.

“How many fingers can you take, Moran?” Moriarty enquires.

“More than that, you know full well I can,” Moran says, laughing. His breath hitches slightly as the Professor eases a second finger inside him.

“Yes, I do,” Moriarty remarks, sliding the two fingers in deeper, crooking them slightly in a way that has Moran shuddering with pleasure. “But I am uncertain exactly what your limit is.”

“Try me and find out,” Moran says. His gaze meets Moriarty's and they regard each other intently for a moment, Moran challenging, Moriarty searching and questioning.

“As you wish,” he says. He withdraws his fingers briefly but only to drip a little more oil onto them.

Moran watches this with a rather salacious expression, lips slightly parted. Looking at him with his flushed face and tousled hair, Moriarty thinks of all the different ways he has seen Moran, all the different facets of him he has witnessed – Moran being cocksure, arrogant, uncertain, angry, sad, playful, flirtatious, gentle, rough; Moran dressed up in evening attire, speaking with an upper class accent; Moran naked and cursing; Moran being kind to animals; Moran the murderer; Moran injured; Moran asleep. There are so many elements to him and likely still many more parts of him that the Professor has yet to see but which will be revealed to him in time. That thought intrigues and excites him immensely.

Moran thinks how exquisite the Professor looks, and how privileged he is to see him this way. It isn't just about the sex, it's about how when they're together like this Moriarty stops pretending to be something he is truly not. He is not that always prim and proper, strait-laced professor so many believe him to be, a man who would never ever do something even particularly interesting never mind thoroughly illegal. He is a man who not only breaks the law and crosses the lines of what is considered right and proper but relishes doing so, whether he's plotting some complex robbery, arranging murder or, well, sliding his fingers into his companion's _arse_. Three fingers now, to be specific.

Moran squirms beneath him, his whole body tensing, the heel of one foot pressing into the bed.

“Are you aware, Moran, that with the proper preparation it is perfectly possible to fit an average-sized adult human hand inside the rectum?” Moriarty remarks. He might as well be sitting in some lecture theatre or medical room for how dispassionately he says this.

This may be one of the strangest things anyone has ever said to Moran during sex, and he laughs. Although it should perhaps be one of the least erotic things anyone has ever said to him too, but somehow the Professor's soft precise tone and nonchalance coupled with what he is saying only excites Moran further. “How the _fuck_ do you know these things, Professor?” he asks, still laughing, though his breath hitches again as Moriarty twists his fingers slightly.

“Perhaps I have been to places where even you, dear Sebastian, have never ventured,” Moriarty says and Moran looks at him for a long thoughtful moment, trying to grasp the meaning of this.

“I think, sir, you, _ah_ , have hidden depths I still don't know about,” he says, panting.

“As do you.” Moriarty gives him the most devilish smile that Moran has ever seen on a man, and Moran is reminded again in that moment that he is not the only predator here.

Perhaps it is that realisation or Moriarty's expression or perhaps it is the particularly clever curl of the Professor's fingers inside him or all of those, maybe, that has Moran suddenly arching up, throwing his head back. For a second there is only a nearly unbearable tension, his body going rigid, all his muscles tensed, tendons corded, and then there is the sweet bliss of release. “ _James!_ ” he cries as he comes, voice strangled, and his breath comes out practically in panting sobs, chest heaving as if he cannot quite get enough air into his lungs to breathe.

“It's all right.” Moriarty withdraws his fingers from Moran. He rubs slow circles on Moran's hip with his other hand. “Shhhh, it's all right.” He watches the Colonel with his head tilted to one side and a feeling of warmth seems to spread through him when Moran's gaze, slightly glazed, drifts back to rest on his face. Nobody has ever used his given name the way Moran just has, he thinks. Not even close. He could grow used to that, he decides.

“God, you are... somethin' else,” Moran says lazily, grinning.

“Is that good?” Moriarty asks, smiling.

“Good, great, bloody marvellous.” Moran beams up at him. The look on his face and the slight slowness of his reactions reminds the Professor of when Moran was drugged after he was shot, yet this reaction seems to be entirely the product of something within him, not something introduced from the outside.

The Professor stands up and rolls his head from side to side briefly to work out some of the stiffness in his neck. Not the most comfortable thing he has ever done, leaning over Moran like that while pushing his fingers into him. But Moran's reaction was worth it.

Moran lifts his head and looks over at Moriarty, casting a glance down Moriarty's body, down his black trousers. “You're not even, uh...”

“Erect?”

“Yeah.” Moran flops down onto the bed again.

“No, I'm not.”

“Want me to...?”

“No, thank you.”

Moran runs his hand over his face, pushing his hair off his forehead. “Then what do you get out of this?” he asks, turning over onto his side to track Moriarty's movements as he goes to wash his hands.

“The pleasure of seeing you at my mercy, my boy.” The look on the Professor's face comes to close to sinister, for a moment. Close, but not quite, because there is a sense of amusement and affection there also.

 _He could kill me_ , Moran thinks. _He could harm me, rip me apart, tear me wide open if he wanted to._ Chasing on the tail of this thought immediately after comes the second: _but he never would_. He doesn't even know, not really, why he thinks this, only that even in that moment when they first met the Professor had saved his life. The last thing then he would want to do now would be to destroy him.

“Do you think, Moran, you would grow bored of me eventually if I never allowed you to enter me?” Moriarty asks as he dries his hands. He is not being entirely serious, though perhaps his light tone masks some true deeper-seated fear of exactly that. Moran has so much experience with so many different people and surely, _surely_ , out of all those people there must have been someone else he could have connected with, if only he had let himself, if only he hadn't been too afraid to get attached which means... he could connect with someone else too in the future, someone better attuned to him than Moriarty is, someone whose sexual drive matches his own.

“Never,” Moran says fiercely. “Never, Professor. It's impossible.”

“Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” Moriarty says, walking back towards the bed. Moran only looks confused by this. “Never mind.” Moriarty pats his arm.

“I keep thinking you'll grow bored of me though,” Moran admits, sitting up.

Moriarty tilts his head slightly. “Why?” he asks, sitting beside Moran.

“Because I don't have a mind like yours. Because I've seen some of your lectures and I can't make 'ead nor tail of 'em, and I've seen some of that stuff you write on your blackboard and it might as well be Russian for all the sense it makes to me.” Moran leans against the Professor's shoulder, mouth lifting into a smile as Moriarty slips his arm around Moran's shoulders.

“It is not necessary for you to care about any of that for you to be interesting to me.”

“But don't you want a companion who you can talk about that kind of thing with?”

“I've met plenty of people I could discuss that kind of thing with and frankly they have all been terribly boring.”

Moran laughs. “So am I not boring then?”

“Definitely not. You are fascinating to me, my magnificent tiger.” Moriarty turns his head and kisses Moran on the forehead.

Moran slides his hand over Moriarty's, clenches his fingers through the Professor's. “I thought maybe... you were gonna try to put your entire hand in me,” he says, tugging Moriarty's hand up beneath his, considering it. The Professor does have very beautiful hands. “I _could_ take more, you know.”

“From most men I would think that an idle boast,” Moriarty remarks. “From you, however, I am inclined to believe you.” He kisses down the side of Moran's face, coming to rest with his mouth close against Moran's ear. “Perhaps some day soon we shall find out if it is actually true,” he says in a low tone, then catches Moran's earlobe between his teeth, nipping very gently, making Moran gasp. “Do you feel up to going out for dinner shortly?” Moriarty asks, as if he has done nothing. “I would rather like to show you off.”

Moran grins. “I'd like that,” he says.

~

Moran watches Moriarty across the table, beneath the glittering chandeliers in the dining room. Far more opulent, this, than that first restaurant where they dined together. Far more public too, for indeed tonight the Professor does seem to want to show off Moran. The true nature of their relationship can never be made public but Moriarty seems to want to subtly flaunt the fact that he has bedded Moran and bound him to him, and that by doing so he is making a mockery of everything polite society believes in, all that they hold dear; he is sneering at them from behind his veneer of respectability. He seems so proud, to have the Colonel walking by his side, standing at his right hand, and Moran is proud too to be alongside him.

The Professor has made no reservation here and yet where most people who failed to make a reservation would be dismissed, the staff are immediately able to accommodate him and his dining companion. Moran is not at all surprised by this. After some of the things he has already experienced with Moriarty nothing very much can surprise him.

In fact this is hardly the Professor's favourite place to dine. He tends to prefer quieter and more private settings to eat, not merely because some of the matters he tends to discuss over dinner require a great deal more privacy. He is beginning to be reminded of the other main reason why this is so as they sit waiting for their meals to arrive. So many people around them, so much raw unfiltered data out there. Just by glancing around Moriarty can identify which men are here with their wives and which their mistresses; he can tell their careers, their other interests, who is happy, who is despondent; he can hear their voices, the chink of cutlery, the scrape of a chair across the floor, all those footsteps. If he allowed himself to fall into all of that he knows it could rapidly become overwhelming, attempting to take in so much information, the majority of it utterly irrelevant to him.

Beneath the table Moran shifts his leg, brushing the side of his shoe against the Professor's leg. A small touch but it's enough to bring Moriarty's focus back, to ground him again. Moriarty glances back towards Moran who sits watching him intently.

“You get this look in your eyes sometimes,” Moran says. “Or... not really a look.” More like a loss of focus which he is learning to identify with uncanny accuracy. It is subtle and most would never notice it, never realise that the Professor is becoming overwhelmed. Most probably would not even notice when he becomes totally withdrawn as a result. But the more time Moran spends with him the better he is learning to read him, even the smallest signs.

Moriarty is hardly surprised by this – Moran is good at reading the subtlest cues. He did it when he was hunting, learning to read the body language of his prey so he could anticipate their movements. He still does it with other animals, when he pets a horse or a dog, understanding seemingly instinctively which ones need a firmer touch and which need a softer approach. And he reads people in a way Moriarty himself cannot, understanding the feelings and emotions beneath the surface far better than the Professor likely ever will. The only major thing he had always seemed to miss was how Moriarty felt for him. Something about the Professor's nature or manner made him too difficult for Moran to read in that regard, as Moriarty was unable to read Moran too. Except now they seem to have become locked into alignment, clicking together, starting to learn how to truly read and understand each other.

“Thank you,” Moriarty says softly.

“We can go somewhere quieter if you'd prefer it, we don't need to stay here.”

“No.” Moriarty smiles. “I want to show you off, remember?”

Moran looks down into his lap, flushing slightly.

He is the most attractive person here, Moriarty thinks. In a room full of people he is the one person who stands out and rises above the mediocrity, the only one Moriarty is truly drawn to, the one man he has a meaningful connection with. His attractiveness towards the Professor is probably nothing like whatever it is that makes him, or anyone else for that matter, attractive to Moran, but that fact is unimportant.

The contrast between Moran now, sitting quietly, dressed up, neatly attired, composed, and the Moran he saw less than a couple of hours ago, naked and groaning and desperate in the throes of passion, is most appealing too. Many people get to see one side or the other; precious few get to appreciate both.

Moran, his head still bowed, raises his eyes to regard the Professor again. He still looks so beautiful, Moran cannot stop trying to look at him, even if most of his glances must be discreet. He barely notices what he is eating, not because the food isn't good but because it doesn't matter to him what it is. What matters is being here with Moriarty, knowing now that they share something that not so long ago Moran could only dream about. He can still feel ghost traces of the Professor's fingers pressing into him, the memory of a sensation more pleasure than pain, and he remembers distinctly being naked beneath him, being so achingly vulnerable to anything the Professor might choose to inflict upon him, yet Moran has not felt so alive in a long time.

After their meal they choose to walk back home. The evening is hot still, humid, making them feel that they are breathing in heat and causing their clothes to stick to them. Even Moriarty – who does not necessarily cope any better with the heat but hides his discomfort better – appears to be wilting a little by now, but being stuck inside a carriage would be little better.

“I reckon a storm's coming,” Moran says, looking up at the sky as they stroll through the west end.

“Good,” Moriarty says. “Perhaps it will wash away some of this infernal heat.”

The sun is setting, sinking down below the buildings, filling the city with shadows. As it sets though for a little while some of the buildings and some of the streets are transmuted into gold. Just for a moment all of that corruption and filth and shit is gilded by the sun's rays. Moran has never thought the place beautiful before, but looking at it now, standing by the side of his Professor, their arms linked, now it is a very beautiful sight.

“London, ours for the taking,” he says. “We could _own_ this city, Professor.” The parts Moriarty doesn't already own anyway, he thinks.

“I thought you hated London,” Moriarty remarks.

“Not when you're in it.” Moran smiles.

Moran was born here, not raised here though; hadn't lived here for years; he spent years lost, wandering, never truly belonging, but now, now he thinks, he has finally come home. And Moriarty too, also born here but raised elsewhere; who has visited London only fleetingly despite owning so much property here, he thinks he could start to regard this place as somewhere to settle.

Moran is right. This city will be his – _theirs_ – to conquer, to plunder; they will build a bigger and better empire of their own around themselves in this dark heart of the British Empire; they will rule its underworld, that shadow London, the real city underneath the facade; they will be its king and his consort.

And they shall be dangerous.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are taken from the following songs:
> 
> 1 MS MR – Criminals  
> 2 Sam Tinnesz – Ready Set Let's Go  
> 3 Fever Ray – Red Trails  
> 4 Pig – The Diamond Sinners  
> 5 Ruelle – Monsters  
> 6 KMFDM – Professional Killer  
> 7 Ruelle – War of Hearts  
> 8 IAMX – Lulled By Numbers  
> 9 Smashing Pumpkins - Eye  
> 10 Fischerspooner – Stranger Strange  
> 11 Unsecret – Dangerous Game  
> 12 Ruelle – Deep End  
> 13 Gary Numan – And It All Began With You  
> 14 Leaether Strip – My Shadow is Your Home  
> 15 Sam Tinnesz – Even If It Hurts  
> 16 IAMX – Stalker  
> 17 The Irrepressibles - Arrow  
> 18 The Irrepressibles – Two Men In Love  
> 19 Zayde Wølf - Dangerous  
> 20 IAMX - Stardust  
> 21 Hidden Citizens – Is This the End  
> 22 Soft Cell – Meet Murder My Angel


End file.
